Page:Carroll - Three Sunsets.djvu/77

 FACES IN THE FIRE.

night creeps onward, sad and slow In these red embers' dying glow The forms of Fancy come and go.

An island-farm—broad seas of corn Stirred by the wandering breath of morn— The happy spot where I was born.

The picture fadeth in its place: Amid the glow I seem to trace The shifting semblance of a face.

'Tis now a little childish form— Red lips for kisses pouted warm— And elf-locks tangled in the storm.

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