The Dark Fire of Sorrow

The dark fire of Sorrow is burning in my brain,
And its glow dwells softly on the hills—
The amber hills, the hills translucent, hills of mellow light
Guaya's still, lake-reflected hills.

There love is like a golden bird that leaps among dead trees,
The old and withered thoughts of men;
Dark scenery of passion in the land of the ideal,
Dark like a little mad glen.

And in that calmer, magic light I see the bright wild bird
Flitting through the peace of Guaya's hills;
And could I leave this narrow glen branched thick with tortured thought,
And wander in those plains the dark fire fills.

Yes, wander to those hills of peace that glow like strange sad jewels,
And enter their calm supernatural day,
That fire would die, that glow depart, and that bright, bright bird love
Would have quietly and for ever flown away.

For the dark fire of Sorrow burns not upon those hills,
There's but peace there and loveliness afar;
And the radiance of that country is the sad, still light that fills
This glen of human sorrow where we are.