Crest of Slow Fire

James Daly

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.