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When the world is burning, Fired within, yet turning Round with face unscathed; Ere fierce flames, uprushing, O’er all lands leap, crushing, Till earth fall, fire-swathed; Up amidst the meadows, Gently through the shadows, Gentle flames will glide, Small, and blue, and golden. Though by bard beholden, When in calm dreams folden,— Calm his dreams will bide.
— EBENEZER JONES