Crest of Slow Fire

Lightning, let the earth not be so strong;

Stay in the clouds-let no mountain of tall trees

Taunt you to lash down with molten tong.

Because as each tree falls my mind sees,

Too terribly clear, terror in the new space;

And each thunder-crash recounts

A storm of hair about a face

I must not think of. Passion mounts

Higher than mountains, with taunts more cruel,

And death by lightning seems only a crest

Of slow fire taking its weary fuel,

Because of hair which never warmed this breast.