For years and years and years,
In this home of a great-grandsire,
Others have sat as I sit,
Spreading their hands to the fire:

Generations of hands—
Powerful hands outflung,
Hands withered and old,
Hands beautiful, young.

Spreading my hands to the fire,
I see, as a blur, as a glow,
Myself in a vanishing mirror
Go down the ages ago.

I see through flowerless orchards,
Through ghostly thoroughfares,
Myself, a figure passing
To mingle my hands with theirs.

Leap, cedar-flame, leap!
Leap, flame of the pine!
And warm my hands—
While yet my hands are mine.