Come, warm your hands
From the cold wind of time.
I have built here under the moon,
a many-coloured fire
With fragments of wood
That have been part of a tree
And part of a ship.
Were leaves more real,
Or driven nails,
Of fingers of builders,
Than these burning violets?
Come, warm your hands
From the cold wind of time.
There’s a fire under the moon.
-Witter Bynner (1881-1968)
