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BURNING OFF
The young horned moon has gone from the sky.
And night has settled down;
A red glare shows from the Rampadells,
Grim as a burning town.
Full seven fathoms above the rest
A tree stands, great and old,
A red-hot column whence fly the sparks,
One ceaseless shower of gold.
All hail the king of the fire before
He sway and crack and crash
To earth!—for surely to-morrow's sun
Will see him fine white ash.
The king in his robe of falling stars
No trace shall leave behind,
And where he stood with his silent court
The wheat shall bow to the wind.
Australia.
62
