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                                             Fire he sang,
that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames.
New buds broke forth from me though it was full summer.
                    As though his lyre (now I knew its name)
                    were both frost and fire, its chords flamed
up to the crown of me.
                    I was seed again.
                                        I was fern in the swamp.
                                                                        I was coal.

 

Denise Levertov

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Nothing was said. And on crawled the little procession in the direction of Summerhouses, men and animals, men-animals, five souls. The pale red sun grazed the surface of the moorland bluffs on this northern winter's morning which was really only an evening. And yet it was midday. The light gilded the clouds of snow flying over the moors so that they seemed one unbroken ocean of fire, one radiant fire of gold with streaming flames and glimmering smoke from east to west over the whole frozen expanse. Through this golden fire of frost, comparable in its magic to nothing but the most powerful and elaborate witchcraft of the Ballads, lay their homeward way.

 

Halldor Laxness

 

Put out the lights now!
Look at the Tree, the rough tree dazzled
In oriole plumes of flame,
Tinselled with twinkling frost fire, tasselled
With stars and moons

 

Cecil Day Lewis

 

But I set fire to the rain,
Watched it pour as I touched your face,
Well it burnt while I cried,
Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name!
I set fire to the rain
And I threw us into the flames
Well it felt like something died
Cause I knew that that was the last time, the last time!

 

Adele (singer)

 

(on the plane crash) I saw Travis running and flailing, trying to put out fire on his body. He screamed, ‘What do I do?’ and I said, ‘Roll!’ He did, but the fire didn’t go out. He tried to rip his clothes off. I finally put the flames out by smothering him with my body. Some of my burns are from that. His sock was on fire – I burned my fingers taking it off.

 

Adam Goldstein

 

What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an open-wood-fire? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple-wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and blue-birds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last Spring. In Summer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round.

 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich