By the Fire

We who are lovers sit by the fire,Cradled warm 'twixt thought and will,Sit and drowse like sleeping dogsIn the equipoise of all desire,Sit and listen to the stillSmall hiss and whisper of green logsThat burn away, that burn awayWith the sound of a far-off falling streamOf threaded water blown to steam,Grey ghost in the mountain world of grey.Vapours blue as distance riseBetween the hissing logs that showA glimpse of rosy heat below;And candles watch with tireless eyesWhile we sit drowsing here. I know,Dimly, that there exists a world,That there is time perhaps, and spaceOther and wider than this place,Where at the fireside drowsily curledWe hear the whisper and watch the flameBurn blinkless and inscrutable.And then I know those other namesThat through my brain from cell to cellEcho--reverberated shoutOf waiters mournful along corridors:But nobody carries the orders out,And the names (dear friends, your name and yours)Evoke no sign. But here I sitOn the wide hearth, and there are you:That is enough and only true.The world and the friends that lived in itAre shadows: you alone remainReal in this drowsing room,Full of the whispers of distant rainAnd candles staring into the gloom.