If my soul could be on fire
in the common way,
I do not think I should survive
the length of any day.
For fire is not fuel itself,
but destroys all that is touches.
So this fire made of passions,
of every-day joys and wills,
must be of some other nature,
that which creates and does not kill.
Otherwise, the fires of our hearts
must be things to despise.
For what joy or gladness
could such destruction bring
to our scrupulous eyes?
Oh be careful to discern
the difference between
a firework and a cherry blossom.
Though both brightly bloom,
one dies a swift and lasting death.
The other wilts that another might live.