Surview

A CRY from the green-grained sticks of the fire
Made me gaze where it seemed to be:
’Twas my own voice talking therefrom to me
On how I had walked when my sun was higher—
My heart in its arrogancy.

“You held not to whatsoever was true,”
Said my own voice talking to me:
“Whatsoever was just you were slack to see;
Kept not things lovely and pure in view,”
Said my own voice talking to me.

“You slighted her that endureth all,”
Said my own voice talking to me;
“Vaunteth not, trusteth hopefully;
That suffereth long and is kind withal,”
Said my own voice talking to me.

“You taught not that which you set about,”
Said my own voice talking to me;
“That the greatest of things is Charity. . . ”
—And the sticks burnt low, and the fire went out,
And my voice ceased talking to me.