By Christopher Pearse Cranch
With what a live intelligence the flame
Glows and leaps up in spires of flickering red,
And turns the coal just now so dull and dead
To a companion — not like those who came
To weary me with iteration tame
Of idle talk in shallow fancies bred.
From dreary moods the cheerful fire has led
My thoughts, which now their manlier strength reclaim.
And like some frozen thing that feels the sun
Through solitudes of winter penetrate,
The frolic currents through my senses run;
While fluttering whispers soft and intimate
Out of the ruddy firelight of the grate
Make talk, love, music, poetry in one.