I’m sorry for a fellow if he cannot look and
In a grate fire’s friendly flaming all the joys
which used to be.
If in quiet contemplation of a cheerful ruddy blaze
He sees nothing there recalling all his happy yesterdays,
Then his mind is dead to fancy and his life is bleak
And he’s doomed to walk the highways that are
always thick with care.
When the logs are dry as tinder and they crackle with
And the sparks, like merry children, come a-dancing
round my feet,
In the cold, long nights of autumn I can sit before
And watch a panorama born of all my yesterdays.
I can leave the present burdens and the moment’s
bit of woe,
And claim once more the gladness of the bygone long-ago.
No loved ones ever vanish from the grate fire’s
No hands in death are folded and no lips are stilled
All the friends who were are living-like
the sparks that fly about
They come romping out to greet me with the same old
Till it seems to me I’m playing once again on
Where there’s no such thing as sorrow and there’s
no such thing as age.
I can be the care-free schoolboy! I can play
the lover, too!
I can walk through Maytime orchards with the old sweetheart
I can dream the glad dreams over, greet the old familiar
In a land where there’s no parting and the laughter
All the gladness life has given from a grate fire
And I’m sorry for the fellow-who sees nothing
there but flame.