By 6 o' clock the day burns out
the central hearth the ashes flout
but where the cinders lie around
a hopeful phoenix starts to sound
enamoured by the glowing ground.
The fire's wrath is gently cooled
(unless this bird is greatly fooled)
and embers warm in Zephyrs play
the stars their nightly sparks display
amid the tatters of the day.
These stars those scattered flames reflect
(ought thousand magi these have trekked)
and phoenix bird from birth has crept
to Stella see all lunar-decked,
a silhouette, still golden flecked.
But as the evening settles in,
the golden cinders to grey begin
to turn: their memory grows dim.
But in the greying of their skin
tomorrow's bird begins to sing.