Page:Wongan Way by Lilian Wooster Greaves, 1927.pdf/8

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But if ever those days come, when our rocks shall be melted in the furnace, and our hills dissolved in the crucible; no burnished metal can be so precious to us as the wide clear vision of our early years here. No king of industry can love the land as we love it in its innocence and infancy. No noisy town can claim our affection as the “long, long ways,” the slopes and gullies, the smiling wheatfields of Wongan Hills West.

Rain on Wongan Hills

Rain! For the Lord in His mercy hath spoken.
Rain! And our drought-ridden bondage is broken.
Rain! For a (door has been opened in heaven.
Rain! Like the manna abundantly given.
Rain on the hills and the sand-plains beneath them.
Rain on the trees and the creepers that wreathe them.
Rain on the gullies and green slopes that bound them.
Rain on the homes and the fair gardens round them.
Rain on the fields where the new grass is showing;
Rain, till the clay-pans are all overflowing.
Rain, till the creeks begin leaping and rushing;
Rain, till the rock-beds with fountains are gushing.
Rain, till the shrubs are with jewels a-quiver;
Rain, till the hoys can go bathe in the river.
Rain! and the children come romping and dashing.
Rain 1 and the girls with their white feet come splashing.
Rain! till they shout it and breathe it and think it.
Rain! How they race it and chase it and drink it!
Rain! How they laugh at it, love it and sing it!
Rain, and the heaven-sent breezes that bring it.
Rain! and the wattle's gold censer is swinging.
Rain! and the birds their “Te deum” are singing.
Rain o’er the country-side, rain in our faces;
Rain with its message for dry desert places.
Rain, till our hearts, to their deepest recesses
Are cleansed and refreshed as the grey wildernesses.
Rain, till the dust of our doubting and grieving
Is all washed away in the joy of believing.
Rain, till the buds of our hope in their beauty
Wreathe with their promise the dry tree of duty.
Rain, till we feel we are learning and growing.
Rain, till our love, like the creek, is o'erflowing.
Rain, till we lift up our hearts in thanksgiving—
Till clear is our vision, and purer our living.
Rain, till we know that the night of our sorrow
Shall break in a brighter and clearer to-morrow.
Rain! for the Lord in His mercy hath spoken.
Rain! and our drought-ridden bondage is broken!

The Little Storm Mother

Oh! who is afraid of the voice of thy thunder?
Who trembles and hides from the fire of thine eyes?
Who hails not thy coming, thou little grey wonder,
As far to the westward we see thee arise?