The Poetry Corner

Summer in Auvergne

By Algernon Charles Swinburne

The sundawn fills the land Full as a feaster's hand Fills full with bloom of bland Bright wine his cup; Flows full to flood that fills From the arch of air it thrills Those rust-red iron hills With morning up. Dawn, as a panther springs, With fierce and fire-fledged wings Leaps on the land that rings From her bright feet Through all its lava-black Cones that cast answer back And cliffs of footless track Where thunders meet. The light speaks wide and loud From deeps blown clean of cloud As though day's heart were proud And heaven's were glad; The towers brown-striped and grey Take fire from heaven of day As though the prayers they pray Their answers had. Higher in these high first hours Wax all the keen church towers, And higher all hearts of ours Than the old hills' crown, Higher than the pillared height Of that strange cliff-side bright With basalt towers whose might Strong time bows down. And the old fierce ruin there Of the old wild princes' lair Whose blood in mine hath share Gapes gaunt and great Toward heaven that long ago Watched all the wan land's woe Whereon the wind would blow Of their bleak hate. Dead are those deeds; but yet Their memory seems to fret Lands that might else forget That old world's brand; Dead all their sins and days; Yet in this red clime's rays Some fiery memory stays That sears their land.