Michael Field (Katherine Harris Bradley) (1846–1914)

AS the young phoenix, duteous to his sire,

Lifts in his beak the creature he has been,

And, lifting o’er the corse broad vans for screen,

Bears it to solitudes, erects a pyre,

And, soon as it is wasted by the fire,

Grids with disdainful claw the ashes clean;

Then spreading unencumber’d wings serene

Mounts to the aether with renew’d desire:

So joyously I lift myself above

The life I buried in hot flames to-day.

The flames themselves are dead: and I can range

Alone through the untarnish’d sky I love,

And I trust myself, as from the grave I may,

To the enchanting miracles of change.