Author James Thomson FROM the midst of the fire I fling These arrows of fire to you: If they sing, and burn, and sting, You feel how I burn too; But if they reach you there Speed-spent, charred black and cold, The fire burns out in the air, The Passion will not be told. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments