Fire and Ice

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I'm pretty sure this is the only poem I can recite from memory. Or that I care I can recite from memory.

The question Frost asks is intriguing: which is ultimately the more destructive force we inflict upon ourselves and others? The passionate fire, capable of purification but also the raging momentum of destruction, or the icy coldness of indifference that leaves only stultifying, silent inertia in its wake? Is consumption or decay ultimately our undoing?

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

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