Hewer of Wood

THE timber I have hewn, stacked high,
Would overtop Saint Mary’s spire
That soars into the windy sky,
Yet it has only served as fuel
To feed one little cottage fire —
Has only served to keep aglow
One ingleneuk when winter’s storm
Raked heaven and earth with blinding snow —
A forest felled and lifelong labor
To keep a little household warm.
And that small fire that still devours
Fresh timber burns my life away:
The tale of gold and glooming hours
Of tree and man’s the selfsame story —
Green flame, red flame, and ashes gray.