She loves the mosses, and her feet have been
In woodlands where the leaves are always green;
Her days pass on with sea-songs, and her nights
Shine, full of stars, on lands of frosty lights.
High travelling winds, filled with the strong storm's soul, Are here, with dark, strange sayings from the Pole; Now is the time when every great cave rings
With sharp, clear echoes caught from mountain springs;
This is the season when all torrents run
Beneath no bright, glad beauty of the sun.
Here, where the trace of last year's green is lost,
Are haughty gales, and lordships of the frost;
Far down, by fields forlorn, and forelands bleak,
Are wings that fly not, birds that never speak;
But in the deep hearts of the glens, unseen,
Stand grave, mute forests of eternal green;
And here the lady, born in wind and rain,
Comes oft to moan and clap her palms with pain;
This is our wild-faced July, in whose breast
Is never faultless light or perfect rest.
Across the range, by every scarred black fell,
Strong Winter blows his horn of wild farewell;
And in the glens, where yet there moves no wing,
A slow, sweet voice is singing of the Spring.
Yea, where the bright, quick woodland torrents run,
A music trembles under rain and sun.
The lips that breathe it are the lips of her
At whose dear touch the wan world's pulses stir-
The nymph who sets the bow of promise high,
And fills with warm life-light the bleak grey sky,
She is the fair-haired August. Ere she leaves
She brings the woodbine blossom round the eaves;
And where the bitter barbs of frost have been
She makes a beauty with her gold and green;
And, while a sea-song floats from bay and beach,
She sheds a mist of blossoms on the peach.*
Where fountains sing and many waters meet
October comes with blossom-trammelled feet;
She sheds green glory by the wayside rills,
And clothes with grace the haughty featured hills.
This is the queen of all the year. She brings
The pure chief beauty of our Southern Springs.
Fair lady of the yellow hair! Her breath
Starts flowers to life, and shames the storm to death;
Through tender nights and days of generous sun
By prospering woods her clear strong torrents run;
In far deep forests, where all life is mute,
Of leaf and bough she makes a touching lute.
Her life is lovely. Stream, and wind, and bird
Have seen her face-her marvellous voice have heard;
And, in strange tracts of wild-wood, all day long
They tell the story in surpassing song.
Now beats the first warm pulse of Summer-now
There shines great glory on the mountain's brow.
The face of heaven in the western sky,
When falls the sun, is filled with Deity!
And while the first light floods the lake and lea,
The morning makes a marvel of the sea;
"September in Australia" is published in Australian Ballads
and Rhymes, in the "Canterbury Poets" series.
The strong leaves sing; and in the deep green zones
Of rock-bound glens the streams have many tones;
And where the evening-coloured waters pass
Now glides November down fair falls of grass.
She is the wonder with the golden wings
Who lays one hand in Summer's-one in Spring's ;
About her hair a sunset radiance glows;
Her mouth is sister of the dewy rose;
And all the beauty of the pure blue skies
Has lent its lustre to her soft bright eyes.
THE month whose face is holiness! She brings
With her the glory of majestic things.
What words of light-what high resplendent phrase
Have I for all the lustre of her days?
She comes, and carries in her shining sphere
August traditions of the world's great year;
The noble tale which lifts the human race
Has made a morning of her sacred face.
Now in the emerald home of flower and wing
Clear summer streams their sweet hosannas sing;
The winds are full of anthems, and a lute
Speaks in the listening hills when night is mute;
And through dim tracts where talks the royal tree
There floats a grand hymn from the mighty sea;
And where the grey, grave, pondering mountains stand
High music lives-the place is holy land!
[Is a State-school teacher at Winton North, near Glenrowan,
FAIR Luna lifts her lovely face above the eastern hills, While through the miles of airy space the mopoke's welcome thrills,
And o'er the amber western sky
The star of evening blazes high.
And swiftly on from hill to sea frolics the wandering breeze,
With leap and bound and gambol free, among the leafy
Lift up your head and feel him now,
Lay his light fingers on your brow.
Long shadows on the dewy grass, all pointing to the west, Checker our pathway as we pass home to our quiet nest; I watch your eyes by Venus' light;
Sweet eyes! Love's reflex makes them bright.
The mopoke with his rapturous lay yet fills the fragrant air,
And Venus lights our homeward way through shadowy woodlands fair.
Ah! fear not life's declining day,
Though westward bound, Love lights the way.
I CLASPED her little hand in jest,
I spoke the tender words in play;
I did not mean to steal her heart,
Her truthful, loving heart away.
I did not love-but only meant
To kill the weary weeks-to flirt.
I thought she understood it all;
I did not mean to wound or hurt.
And now the merry voice is hushed,
The tender, pure, true heart at rest,
For ever veiled the violet eyes
And cold the hands I clasped-in jest.
I did not mean-What need, alas!
To say those words 'tis all too late.
They will not bring the dead past back,
Nor join the severed threads of fate.
They will not call the red warm life
Into her marble cheek and brow,
Nor glad with sunshine those sad hearts
That loved her, and are lonely now.
The dead are dead, the past is past-
And anguish and regret are vain ;
For ever through the world I roam,
An outcast with the brand of Cain.
|