Sonnets Of The Blood Vi Poem by Allen Tate

The fire I praise was once perduring flame-
Till it snuffs with our generation out;
No matter, it's all one, it's but a name
Not as late honeysuckle half so stout;
So think upon it how the fire burns blue,
Its hottest, when the flame is all but spent;
Thank God the fuel is low, well not renew
That length of flame into our firmament;
Think too the rooftree crackles and will fall
On us, who saw the sacred fury's height-
Seated in her tall chair, with the black shawl
From head to foot, burning with motherly light
More spectral than November dusk could mix
With sunset, to blaze on her pale crucifix.