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| THE CENTRE-FIRE 1 heaves underneath the earth, | |
| And the earth changes like a human face; | |
| The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, | |
| Winds into the stone’s heart, outbranches bright | |
| In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, | 5 |
| Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask— | |
| God joys therein. The wroth sea’s waves are edged | |
| With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate, | |
| When, in the solitary waste, strange groups | |
| Of young volcanoes come up, Cyclops-like, | 10 |
| Staring together with their eyes on flame— | |
| God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride. | |
| Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod: | |
| But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes | |
| Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure | 15 |
| Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between | |
| The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, | |
| Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; | |
| The grass grows bright, the boughs are swollen with blooms | |
| Like chrysalids impatient for the air; | 20 |
| The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run | |
| Along the furrows, ants make their ado; | |
| Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark | |
| Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; | |
| Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing gulls | 25 |
| Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe | |
| Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek | |
| Their loves in wood and plain—and God renews | |
| His ancient rapture. | |
