Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow



Not without fire can any workman mould
  The iron to his preconceived design,
  Nor can the artist without fire refine
  And purify from all its dross the gold;
Nor can revive the phoenix, we are told,
  Except by fire.  Hence if such death be mine
  I hope to rise again with the divine,
  Whom death augments, and time cannot make old.
O sweet, sweet death!  O fortunate fire that burns
  Within me still to renovate my days,
  Though I am almost numbered with the dead!
If by its nature unto heaven returns
  This element, me, kindled in its blaze,
  Will it bear upward when my life is fled.