Poem by Randolph Trow

Art by Lucas Eglin

Spinoff of “The Burning Babe” by Robert Southwell

As I in hoary winter’s night, stood shivering in the snow,

Surprised I was with sudden heat, which made my head to grow;

And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,

A beautiful joint, softly burning, did in the air appear;

Who, scorched with such friendly heat, such floods of smoke did shed,

As though a voice came through the end, from which his breath were fed.

“Alas!” he said, “but newly born, in fiery heats I fry, 

Yet none approach to warm their hearts or join my high but I!

In my faultless breast, a furnace lies, the smoke, a pointed thorn,

Love feeds the fire and sighs smoke, all while they shame and scorn;

They’ll say, ‘The evil fuel layeth on, and the Devil blows the coals,

The greens in this furnace wrought, are men’s defiled souls,’

For which, as now on fire, I am to work you good,

So will you melt into a bath and wash under the hood.” 

      With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,

      And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas day,

      And I then remembered, in which house I proclaimed to stay.

      And what I would be met with, and what they all will say.