Not without fire can any workman mould <br />The iron to his preconceived design, <br />Nor can the artist without fire refine <br />And purify from all its dross the gold; <br />Nor can revive the phoenix, we are told, <br />Except by fire. Hence if such death be mine <br />I hope to rise again with the divine, <br />Whom death augments, and time cannot make old. <br />O sweet, sweet death! O fortunate fire that burns <br />Within me still to renovate my days, <br />Though I am almost numbered with the dead! <br />If by its nature unto heaven returns <br />This element, me, kindled in its blaze, <br />Will it bear upward when my life is fled.<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fire-sonnet-ii/
