POETRY.
BURNING OFF.
THEY'RE burning off in the Rampadells : The tawny flames up-rise With greedy licking around the trees; The fierce breath sears our eyes From cores already grown furnace-hot- The logs are well alight We throw more wood where the fiameless 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, And melt in greys and blues.
And when the 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 bail the king of the fire before He sway and crack and crash To earth—for surely to-morrow's sun Will see but white fine ash.
The king in his robe of falling stars No more shall leave behind, And where be stood with his silent court The wheat shall bow to the wind.
DOROTHEA. MACKELL.A.R.
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