Campfire
BLACK ASHES By MARTHA HASKELL CLARK
 
SOME time we shall remember them—the little camping-places 
(A day long, an hour long, a halt beside the way) 
 Shall see again before us the mountains' kindly faces
And the white roads pleading, leading through the hill-mists wreathing gray.

Lichened spur and creeping trail, sun-gold in the west,
Purple moorland, misty lurc-land spreading far beneath,
Red-gold flamelight lifting, drifting round the pinc-dark crest
To dim the little village lights asleep upon the heath.

Some time we shall remember them—from out the days that bind us,
(A year long, a life long, that link and hold us fast)
Will steal a breath of twilight blent with wood-smoke to remind us
Of the little camping-places in the springtimes that are past.

White-spread dunes and opal sea, gray gulls 'slant the spray,
Spiced sweet fern by sandy turn, where the sun strikes gold.
Scent of wood-smoke, vagrant, fragrant, oh, it haunts the air to-day
From the little camping-places in the story that is told.