Have friends not often passed friends by,
In hunting fawns in different glens
Returning often homeward to
An empty hearth with dry oats laid.
Did friends not often mutter too
Of how the pastures wild lay bare
When in each others' glance, a million
Miles of darkness somehow forbear
That wakening, oh, that youngest spark,
Of light to kindle feelings thrawn,
The outback, tender clump of hay,
And let some breeze be inward drawn.
And when we likewise let the flame
That yearly had with laughter passed
This odd one-two so cruelly by,
The ground could scarcely seconds last.
Raging, angry, angry fire,
At last released, did badly scorch
All inhibitions in its way
In heat, not light, alone a torch.
And like the wildfires passing through
Each summer your dry wooden homes
We ate the ground, but soon the sea,
And burnt ourself aloud with groans.
What now? Though knidling and the flame
Each other have consumed and sit
Despondent on some foreign shore
They can't retred the land erst lit.