<h2><SPAN name="page109"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>ARMAND BARBÈS</h2>
<h3>I</h3>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fire</span> out of heaven,
a flower of perfect fire,<br/>
That where the roots of life are had its root<br/>
And where the fruits of time are brought forth
fruit;<br/>
A faith made flesh, a visible desire,<br/>
That heard the yet unbreathing years respire<br/>
And speech break forth of centuries that sit mute<br/>
Beyond all feebler footprint of pursuit;<br/>
That touched the highest of hope, and went up higher;<br/>
A heart love-wounded whereto love was law,<br/>
A soul reproachless without fear or flaw,<br/>
A shining spirit without shadow of shame,<br/>
A memory made of all men’s love and awe;<br/>
Being disembodied, so thou be the same,<br/>
What need, O soul, to sign thee with thy name?</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p class="poetry">All woes of all men sat upon thy soul<br/>
And all their wrongs were heavy on thy head;<br/>
With all their wounds thy heart was pierced and
bled,<br/>
And in thy spirit as in a mourning scroll<br/>
<SPAN name="page110"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>The
world’s huge sorrows were inscribed by roll,<br/>
All theirs on earth who serve and faint for
bread,<br/>
All banished men’s, all theirs in prison
dead,<br/>
Thy love had heart and sword-hand for the whole.<br/>
“This was my day of glory,” didst thou say,<br/>
When, by the scaffold thou hadst hope to climb<br/>
For thy faith’s sake, they brought thee respite;
“Nay,<br/>
I shall not die then, I have missed my day.”<br/>
O hero, O our help, O head sublime,<br/>
Thy day shall be commensurate with time.</p>
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