Saeclum in Favilla

Blue fire deep in the eye; 
Girl's hair gentlest of fire; 
Fingers: summer's white rose; 
Breath: always southern air. 
A temperate heat. (Remember 
Boy's dream on the fireside floor?) 
But in this flame Oz and Malory 
Shapes do not seem but are. 
   
Life that must burn to be 
Straying is not banked here: 
Primitive ferns in coal, 
Shouts of arsonous fall. 
Even the best lamp, man, 
Built of chlorine and ore, 
Of apple, of cherry, of stone 
Where tons of waterfall shower—
  
Through brain's long cagey retreat, 
Nerves' jungle, bone's stone door 
In a century or much less 
The burning will murkily wear. 
Tendons tatter like ash 
Of fern in the hollow's scar. 
But springing on jubilant wing 
A redbird screams in the fir.