’Tis not for thy children, thine anger and grumbling,
Fierce little Storm-mother, with love in thy breast.
We laugh as we list to thy chariot-wheels rumbling.
We know what has brought thee from out. the cool west.
We know that the rover, the East Wind, has told thee
That blistered the hills are, and thirsty the plain.
Thy famishing children are fain to behold thee—
Their fevered lips long for thy coolness again.
In thine eyes blaze the lightnings of fierce indignation.
The little hills quake at the touch of thy feet.
But the children who know thee, in pure adoration
Cry “Little Storm-mother, your kisses are sweet!”
Come, veil us awhile from the harshness of summer.
Cast o’er us the folds of thy gossamer grey.
Oh! who is afraid of the little Storm-mother
Who shadows the hills from the heat of the day?
Birds at Wongan Hills
‘Tweet, tweet, you're sweet; you're sweetest of the sweet!”—
Thus Brown-wing would his song of love repeat;
And from the wattle branches’ green retreat
He listened for the shy response—"Tweet, tweet!”
“A nest, a nest, a little, little nest—
The best, the best, the very, very best”—
Their blended song their love of home expressed—
The smallest, greyest home in all the West.
“You sweet, you sweet, you sweetest little things!”
Now Father Brown-wing, now the mother sings,
As each fond parent on untiring wings
To baby-bird some dainty morsel brings.
“Come fly! come fly! ’Tis time you learned to fly.
Come, Baby Brown-wings, spread your wings, and try.
You’ll want to go hunting by-and-bye,
And wheeling round the salmon-gum so high.”
Each wondrous birdling tries the wondrous feat.
Full soon their education is complete.
Brown-wing once more his love-song doth repeat—
“Tweet, tweet, my sweet; you’re sweetest of the sweet!”
Evening on Wongan Hills
Was there ever such an evening
Since God said “Let there be light”?
Ever such sublime communion—
Heaven with earth, and day with night—
Mingling in one perfect rapture
Heaven's love and earth’s delight.