THE HOUSE OF CHANGE

By Francis Sherman

Was it last Autumn only, when I stood

At the field's edge, and watched the red glow creep

Among the leaves, and saw the swift flame sweep

From spruce to hemlock, till the living wood

Became a devastated solitude?

For now, behold, old seeds, long years asleep,

Wake; and a legion of young birches leap

To life, and tell the ashes life is good.

O Love of long ago, when this mad fire

Is over, and the ruins of my soul

With the Spring wind the old quest would resume,—

When age knocks at the inn of youth's desire,

Shall the new growth, now worthier of the goal,

Find still untenanted the chosen room?