HEARTH-GLOW
Now a man’s true heart is his home, I think, And the hearth with the crackling pine, With the leaping flames and the glowing stones, Is somehow its inmost shrine.
And the stones must come from the river’s bed— Softly colorful must they be, Like the long-dulled rose and the faded green Of an old-time tapestry.
And the light must fall with a fitful flare On the logs in the lichened wall— (Oh they must be trees where the squirrel’s shrill note Once echoed the bluejay’s call.)
And the light will leap in the man’s dark eyes From the flash of each burning brand, And the man will know from its quickening touch, The where of a woman’s hand.
And the fears that weighed till he grew afraid Will be turned into nothingness With the strength that comes from a tender word And the warmth of a soft caress.
And the long-dreamed dreams of the un-lived days Out over the rainbow’s rim— They will be more real than the stuff of dreams Through her wonderful faith in him.
And it’s this and that which the hearth gives back In the glow of the crackling pine, That endears the place to a man’s own soul Till it’s somehow his inmost shrine.