Spring has come to the plains,
And, following close behind,
Green of the welcome rains,
And spice of the first warm wind;
Beating of wings on high,
For, overhead in the blue,
Southward the brolgas fly,
The cranes and pelicans too,
Ibis, and proud black swan—
And quivering cries float clear,
After the birds are gone,
Still lingering in the ear.
Everywhere we pass
The horses tread soft and deep;
Clover and young green grass—
Hark to the grazing sheep,
Cropping steady and slow—
A peaceful, satisfied sound;
Thick on the paths we go
Gold flowers are starring the ground.
Spring! and the world’s astir,
And everything gives praise,
Singing the strength of her
These lovely lengthening days.
PILGRIM SONG
My feet are grey with the roadside dust,
My hair is wet with the dew,
My heart is flagging with weariness
And faint with the want of you.
You are as young as the breaking buds,
You are as old as the sea;
My soul burns white in the flame of you—
Love, open your door to me!...
I sought my love in the noontide heat,
I sought in the bitter wind,
And found her house—and the doors were shut,
And the windows were barred and blind.
THE COORONG SANDHILLS
(South Australia)
Over the Coorong sandhills only the wild duck fly,
Naught is there but the knot-grass rank, and the sea, and the sky;
Redder than cooling lava, slow heave the hills to the blue,
Splendid, dazzling, and stainless, of sky and of ocean too.
South to the frozen mountains faces the last red hill,
Only the sea between them; almost as lone and still
Shows the sand as the ice-peaks, but it has heat and light,
Set against the aurora that shatters the polar night.