And only where the forest fires have sped, 
 Scorching relentlessly the cool north lands, 
A sweet wild flower lifts its purple head, 
And, like some gentle spirit sorrow-fed, 
 It hides the scars with almost human hands. 

And only to the heart that knows of grief, 
 Of desolating fire, of human pain, 
There comes some purifying sweet belief, 
Some fellow-feeling beautiful, if brief. 
 And life revives, and blossoms once again