The Song of the Flames


               We are motes of sunshine stolen
                   When the world was fair and young,
               Stolen from our joytime golden,
                   Into earth's black bowels flung;
               Kissed of light and born of passion,
                   Thrilling with the wine of life,
               Ravished in most cruel fashion,
                   We were banished from the strife.

               Pent in prisons dark and loathsome,
                   Cells of sorrow, 'reft of mirth,
               In our rocky chamber, lonesome,
                   Slept we till our second birth, -
               Slept we through the long, long ages,
                   Dreaming of the time to be,
               Till God, turning many pages,
                   Deemed it fit to set us free.


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