An Olive Fire

An olive fire's a lovely thing;

Somehow it makes me think of Spring

As in my grate it over-spills

With dancing flames like daffodils.

They flirt and frolic, twist and twine,

The brassy fire-irons wink and shine. . . .

Leap gold, you flamelets! Laugh and sing:

An olive fire's a lovely thing.



An olive fire's a household shrine:

A crusty loaf, a jug of wine,

An apple and a chunk of cheese -

Oh I could be content with these.

But if my curse of oil is there,

To fry a fresh-caught fish, I swear

I do not envy any king,

As sitting by my hearth I sing:

An olive fire's a lovely thing.



When old and worn, of life I tire,

I'll sit before an olive fire,

And watch the feather ash like snow

As softly as a rose heart glow;

The tawny roots will loose their hoard

Of sunbeams centuries have stored,

And flames like yellow chicken's cheep,

Till in my heart Peace is so deep:

With hands prayer-clasped I sleep . . . and sleep.