The little fires that Nature lights -
The scilla's lamp, the daffodil -
She quenches, when of stormy nights
Her anger whips the hill.

The fires she lifts against the cloud -
The irised bow, the burning tree -
She batters down with curses loud,
Nor cares that death should be.

The fire she kindles in the soul -
The poet's mood, the rebel's thought -
She cannot master, for their coal
In other mines is wrought

More verses by Joseph Campbell