Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
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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. | |