FOREST FIRE 



I saw this: 



It was the Inferno of Dante: 



But ten times worse. 



More horrible ; more wildly beautiful. 



There was a Valley, deep, rough and jagged. 

 On its sides, struggling for their places, 

 Were pine trees ancient, gaunt and gray. 



It climbed to their black boughs, 

 Even to the summits. 

 And there it feasted. 



On the crest of the Valley, Man stood 

 Gazing down . . . terrified. 

 He could not move. 



His eyes, bulged with fear, followed the dancing 

 flames upward 



It was Night. 



Above the Valley, like a fog on a day of damp. 

 There lingered a cloud 



Delicately pink, and changing with the minutes. 

 In the Valley, all was flame. 

 It lapped the scrubby grass, devoured the 



scraggy bushes, 

 But coming to the pines, softly caressed them; 

 Until, in a moment of madness. 



Until above the cloud of pink, 

 They were lost in blackness. 



Once a lullaby, the murmur of the flames became 



a cry 

 Like the clarion notes of a trumpet triumphant. 



The Valley was the Inferno. 

 The Inferno was the End. 

 I saw and heard all this. 



E. LIONEL FINCH. 



