Summer in Auvergne

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.