I cast my log gladly into the fire—thus,
It grips, the flames mount, the warmth embraces.
“Almost I can see your face, Woman;
The bow of your fair lips is hot with speeded arrows,
Your strange clear eyes have darkened.
Fear not—our fire will outlast the dark.”
“Hunter, what of the cold on the bleak hillside
When the log burns gray, and the fire is ashes?”
I replied, “I have never seen this:
When the fire burns low I am asleep.”