Classic Poem

See how the wanderer from the Land of Fire
Mid cold and gloom is still the Child of Flame;
To bind, to starve, to slay, but not to tame;
See how he makes this clod of kneaded mire
The lustrous jewel of a King's desire;
And here in dust and darkness is the same
As, fresh from his divine abode, he came
The true-born child of his immortal sire.

And thou, poor log, who gavest of thy best,
Thy self and substance freely offering
As sustenance to thy devouring guest,
What hast thou earned, thou charred and blackened thing!
Dust as thou wert, to dust hast thou returned —
But yet — thou hast not rotted, thou hast burned.