PICTURES IN THE FIRE by ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

WHAT is it you ask me, darling?
All my stories, child, you know;
I have no strange dreams to tell you,
Pictures I have none to show.

Tell you glorious scenes of travel?
Nay, my child, that cannot be,
I have seen no foreign countries,
Marvels none on land or sea.

Yet strange sights in truth I witness,
And I gaze until I tire;
Wondrous pictures, changing ever,
As I look into the fire.

There, last night, I saw a cavern,
Black as pitch; within it lay,
Coiled in many folds, a dragon,
Glaring as if turned at bay.

And a knight in dismal armor
On a winged eagle came,
To do battle with this dragon:
And his crest was all of flame.

As I gazed the dragon faded,
And, instead, sat Pluto crowned
By a lake of burning fire;
Spirits dark were crouching round.

That was gone, and lo! before me,
A cathedral vast and grim;
I could almost hear the organ
Peal along the arches dim.

As I watched the wreathed pillars,
Groves of stately palms arose,
And a group of swarthy Indians
Stealing on some sleeping foes.

Stay: a cataract glancing brightly
Dashed and sparkled; and beside
Lay a broken marble monster,
Mouth and eyes were staring wide.

Then I saw a maiden wreathing
Starry flowers in garlands sweet;
Did she see the fiery serpent
That was wrapped about her feet?

That fell crashing all and vanished;
And I saw two armies close, --
I could almost hear the clarions,
And the shouting of the foes.

They were gone; and lo! bright angels.
On a barren mountain wild,
Raised appealing arms to heaven,
Bearing up a little child.

And I gazed, and gazed, and slowly
Gathered in my eyes sad tears,
And the fiery pictures bore me
Back through distant dreams of years.

Once again I tasted sorrow,
With past joy was once more gay,
Till the shade had gathered round me --
And the fire had died away.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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