THE little fires that Nature lights -- The Scylla’s lamp, the Daffodil.
She quenches, when of stormy nights, her anger whips the hill.
The fires she lifts against the cloud -- The irised bow, the burning tree. She batters down with curses loud, nor cares that death should be.
The fire she kindles in the soul -- The poet's mood, the rebel's thought She cannot master, for their coal, in other mines is wrought.
Joseph Campbell.