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.