Fire, the poets often say,
Is not the heart of summer’s day,
Nor is it matches struck for play,
Nor sun-bright lava spewn away,
But is a force of mind that’s set
For giant lightning thoughts to get—
Desire!

Fire in hands and fire in feet
Lead the mind’s quick flames to fill
All the aims of all the will
Never fated to be still
But within the end complete.

Desire, then, all singers sing,
Is not in wind or wave or wing;
It’s not in horns and not in sting,
Nor in the winter, not in spring,
But in a purpose man has willed
To start from scratch and himself build
Fire!