Page:The eighth sin (IA eighthsin00morlrich).pdf/33



Quaker wood burns sweet and slow And sinks into a crimson glow.
 * The log, grown tough with many days
 * The fiery fingers long gainsays

And then—how grey the ash below!

Green were your leaves of long ago, Now brighter blossoms round you grow
 * The golden foliage of the blaze
 * Old Quaker wood!

And even in your final throe The small blue flame is whispering low
 * In confidential Quaker phrase
 * "Thee must be brave!" The log obeys

For any (as we all well know)
 * Old Quaker would!

Old Jordans Hostel.