Classic Poem

Let the fires be swift, not slow.
In the terror of the glow
Let the awful change be wrought
Till the flesh is light as thought.

Will the spirit not pause and wait
For her wonted faring-mate
If it follows as pale motes may
Up the slanting sunbeam way;

If it drifts as ashes might
On the fragrances of night,
By that one white breath of heat
Shriven to pure and sweet?