James Thomson

* * *

THE fire that filled my heart of old
  Gave luster while it burned;
Now only ashes gray and cold
  Are in its silence urned.
Ah! better was the furious flame,
  The splendor with the smart;
I never cared for the singer's fame
  But, oh! for the singer's heart
    Once more-- 
The burning fulgent heart!

No love, no hate, no hope, no fear,
  No anguish and no mirth;
Thus life extends from year to year,
  A flat of sullen dearth.
Ah! life's blood creepeth cold and tame,
  Life's thought plays no new part;
I never cared for the singer's fame,
  But, oh! for the singer's heart
    Once more-- 
The bleeding passionate heart!