VI.
O the loud flames upward springing!
O that first fierce yell within,
And, without, that stormy laughter!
Like rooks across a sunset winging,
Dark they dashed through glare and din,
Under rain of beam and rafter!
O that death-shriek heavenward ringing!
O that wondrous silence after!
[Original]
The fire-glare showed,'mid glaze and blister,
A boy's cheek wet with tears.'Twas base!
That boy was first-born of my sister;
Yet I smote him on the face!
Ah! but when the poplars quiver
In the hot noon, cold o'erhead,
Sometimes with a spasm I shiver;
Sometimes round me gaze with dread.
Ah! and when the silver willow
Whitens in the moonlight gale,
From my hectic, grassy pillow,
I hear, sometimes, that infant's wail!
—Aubrey de Vere.
