Classic Poem

Fire he sings of—fierce and poignant flame;
Passion that bids a timid world be bold,
And Love that rides the tempest uncontrolled,
Scorning all customs with a greater claim.
Yet, underneath the ink, his soul is staid;
Calm, even calculating, shrewd and cold.
His pain lives but in print; his tears are rolled
And packed in small, neat lyrics for the trade.

He hawks his passions of assorted brands;
Romantic toys and tinsels of desire;
Marionettes that plead as he commands;
Rockets that sputter feebly, and expire. . .
And he is pleased and proud, and warms his hands
At the pale fireworks he takes for fire.