The Witch-Maid, and Other Verses/Burning Off
BURNING OFF
They're burning off at the Rampadells,
The tawny flames uprise
With greedy licking around the trees:
The hot breath sears our eyes
From cores already grown furnace-hot;
The logs are well alight;
We fling more wood where the flameless heart
Is throbbing red and white.
The fire bites deep in that beating heart,
The creamy smoke-wreaths ooze
From cracks and knot-holes along the trunk
To melt in greys and blues.
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.