Classic Poem

On the altar of the world
All the hopes of Spring are furled;
All of Autumn's gifts are spread
Where the Summer rests her head.
Broken beauty, ravished youth,
Ghosts of passion, shards of truth,
Old desires and visions lost, —
All of these are heaped and tossed
On the sacrificial pile,
Where in majesty a while
Summer sleeps in solemn state;
Sleeps upon a wide, ornate
Bed of balsam, oak and larch.
Nature then applies the torch.

First a spark — then leaps among
Oak and beech a tiny tongue;
Darts of gold and tips of yellow
Touch the branches of the willow.
And the growing color spreads
Into fierce and flaming reds,
Kindling bush and brake and brier
With the surging, sacred fire.
Maple clusters all aglow,
Slim white birches in a row,
Trembling in the woodland ways,
Burst into a golden blaze.

Even slender grass and fern
Droop and wither as they burn,
While the helpless earth is lost
In this sweeping holocaust.
Now the wakened winds run free,
Swinging brands from tree to tree,
And the fire spreads until
Every mountainside and hill,
Every hedge and garden close,
In the wildest radiance glows —
Till the flames that fly unfurled
Leap and inundate the world.
And the martyred Summer lies
Burning with her sacrifice...

Why this immolation; why
Wrapped in flame does Summer lie,
Till the world is barren, and
Only ashes strew the land.
Is this saintly death, the birth
Of another richer earth
That will quicken from the sere
Leaves and ruin scattered here.
Does the dying Summer know
That, beneath the embers' glow,
Unborn daisies wait, and bold
Violets that dare the cold;
That from Summer's sacrifice
Spring eternally will rise.