POETRY.


FIRE


This life that we call our own

Is neither strong nor free;

A flame in the wind of death,

It trembles ceaselessly.


And this all we can do

To use our little light

Before, in the piercing wind,

It flickers into night:


To yield the heat of the flame,

To grudge not, but to give

Whatever we have of strength,

That one more flame may live.


by Dorothea Mackellar



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POETRY.

POETRY.

POETRY.