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.
. . . . . .