The little candle burns its wick,
With fiery whisper drops a drip,
A passion only seen from near,
A slowly shrinking, darting tip.
A sea of swirling colors burn,
A swooping tail escaping term,
Glad to light in darkened hour,
A cry of smoke with every turn.
Oh little candle, light your fire,
Burn atop your ivory spire,
Melt until but mound of wax,
For of your light we never tire