SURVIEW

A cry from the green-grained sticks of the fire

Made me gaze where it seemed to be:

‘ Twas my own voice talking therefrom to me

On how I had walked when my sun was higher -

My heart in its arrogancy.

“You held not to whatsoever was true,”

Said my own voice talking to me:

“Whatsoever was just you were slack to see;

Kept not things lovely and pure in view,”

Said my own voice talking to me.

“You slighted her that endureth all,”

Said my own voice talking to me;

“Vaunteth not, trusteth hopefully;

That suffereth long and is kind withal,”

Said my own voice talking to me.

“You taught not that which you set about,”

Said my own voice talking to me;

“That the greatest of things is Charity... "

- And the sticks burnt low, and the fire went out,

And my voice ceased talking to me.