by Katharine Lee Bates
First was a fire of myrtle,
Just for my Love and me;
The storm at the door might hurtle,
But safe within sat we.
Now cypress boughs are burning
Upon my hearth, and all
Whose hearts are sore with yearning
May share my forest-hall.
Source:Yellow Clover: A Book Of Remembrance
E. P. Dutton & Company, New York