Robin Hyde

Written in Cold
 
When I am weighted down with fame
And wealthy past desire,
I shall spend every copper on
Pine-sticks for a fire.

Flames shall be my jongleurs,
Flames my minstrel wights,
And flames beneath a sky of sparks
Shall dance for me o’ nights.

Slim flames in sapphire,
Waspish flames in green . . .
But a still flame in scarlet,
She shall be my Queen.

I shall be their mad master . . .
Shriller, fiercer than words
Out of my golden aviary
Shall cry my burning birds.

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Last updated 21 September, 2003