The wind blows over—beacon though it be,
Whose merry ardor only meant to make
Somebody all the better for its blaze,
And save lost people in the dark: quenched now!
Not long quenched! As the flame, just hurried off
The brand's edge, suddenly renews its bite,
Tasting some richness caked i' the core o' the tree,—
Pine, with a blood that 's oil,—and triumphs up
Pillar-wise to the sky and saves the world:
So, in a spasm and splendor of resolve,