There is an inward flame that flares the blood
Of every man; an ever burning blaze
An ember now, but then a scorching flood
That gulfs his innards in a lifelong feeze.
How many times have I aspired to quench
This steadfast pyre of hot discomfort cold,
Quaffing myself down through a dulling drench
Of touch, and taste, and tumult uncontrolled.
Yet this consuming ardor, I have found,
Is life itself and dies when I'm put out.
It ought thus to be kindled on, not drowned,
Consumed in action, not subsumed in doubt;
Then let me feed upon anxiety,
Or else its starving fire shall feed on me.
Of every man; an ever burning blaze
An ember now, but then a scorching flood
That gulfs his innards in a lifelong feeze.
How many times have I aspired to quench
This steadfast pyre of hot discomfort cold,
Quaffing myself down through a dulling drench
Of touch, and taste, and tumult uncontrolled.
Yet this consuming ardor, I have found,
Is life itself and dies when I'm put out.
It ought thus to be kindled on, not drowned,
Consumed in action, not subsumed in doubt;
Then let me feed upon anxiety,
Or else its starving fire shall feed on me.
