While from my window pane the fire was throwing
Taunts to the elements with its bright glow,
A poor, storm-driven bird, its lost way winging,
Paused when it saw the flame’s reflected light;
Unto the window for a moment clinging,
Then downward fell, forever lost to sight.
And so it is, I thought, that poor hearts yearning
For more of life, charmed by its outward sheen,
Must backward fall, the truth too quickly learning,
That death, cold and unyielding, stands between.