Classic Poem

The weird fantastic motion of the flames
Upon the soul exerts a mystic power:
We watch them paint, with wonder, hour by hour,
Strange objects having neither forms nor names;
And now each picture as it fades away,
Starts in the mind some train of hidden thought —
A dream of what shall be, perhaps, is wrought,
Or yet again, fond mem'ry holds its sway;
But oftenest on fancy's wings we're borne
To the dim precincts of the spirit-world,
And Ghosts and Goblins seem more real when furled
In fiery garments ever gashed and torn.
Oh! better far is it than songs or games,
To read sweet myst'ries in the dancing flames