Fire in the heavens, and fire along the hills, <br />and fire made solid in the flinty stone, <br />thick-massed or scattered pebble, fire that fills <br />the breathless hour that lives in fire alone. <br />This valley, long ago the patient bed <br />of floods that carved its antient amplitude, <br />in stillness of the Egyptian crypt outspread, <br />endures to drown in noon-day's tyrant mood. <br />Behind the veil of burning silence bound, <br />vast life's innumerous busy littleness <br />is hushed in vague-conjectured blur of sound <br />that dulls the brain with slumbrous weight, unless <br />some dazzling puncture let the stridence throng <br />in the cicada's torture-point of song.<br /><br />Christopher John Brennan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/summer-noon/
