Part 13 (1/2)

Keen, fitful gusts, that fly before The wings of storm when day hath shut Its eyes on mountains, flaw by flaw, Fleet down by whistling box-tree b.u.t.t, Against the hut.

And, ringed and girt with lurid pomp, Far eastern cliffs start up, and take Thick steaming vapours from a swamp That lieth like a great blind lake, Of face opaque.

The moss that, like a tender grief, About an English ruin clings-- What time the wan autumnal leaf Faints, after many wanderings On windy wings--

That gracious growth, whose quiet green Is as a love in days austere, Was never seen--hath never been-- On slab or roof, deserted here For many a year.

Nor comes the bird whose speech is song-- Whose songs are silvery syllables That unto glimmering woods belong, And deep, meandering mountain dells By yellow wells.

But rather here the wild-dog halts, And lifts the paw, and looks, and howls; And here, in ruined forest vaults, Abide dim, dark, death-featured owls, Like monks in cowls.

Across this hut the nettle runs, And livid adders make their lair In corners dank from lack of suns, And out of foetid furrows stare The growths that scare.

Here Summer's grasp of fire is laid On bark and slabs that rot, and breed Squat ugly things of deadly shade, The scorpion, and the spiteful seed Of centipede.

Unhallowed thunders, harsh and dry, And flaming noontides, mute with heat, Beneath the breathless, brazen sky, Upon these rifted rafters beat With torrid feet.

And night by night the fitful gale Doth carry past the bittern's boom, The dingo's yell, the plover's wail, While lumbering shadows start, and loom, And hiss through gloom.

No sign of grace--no hope of green, Cool-blossomed seasons marks the spot; But chained to iron doom, I ween, 'Tis left, like skeleton, to rot Where ruth is not.

For on this hut hath murder writ, With b.l.o.o.d.y fingers, h.e.l.lish things; And G.o.d will never visit it With flower or leaf of sweet-faced Springs, Or gentle wings.

September in Australia

Grey Winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest, And, behold, for repayment, September comes in with the wind of the West And the Spring in her raiment!

The ways of the frost have been filled of the flowers, While the forest discovers Wild wings, with the halo of hyaline hours, And the music of lovers.

September, the maid with the swift, silver feet!

She glides, and she graces The valleys of coolness, the slopes of the heat, With her blossomy traces; Sweet month, with a mouth that is made of a rose, She lightens and lingers In spots where the harp of the evening glows, Attuned by her fingers.

The stream from its home in the hollow hill slips In a darling old fas.h.i.+on; And the day goeth down with a song on its lips, Whose key-note is pa.s.sion.

Far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea I stand, and remember Dead things that were brothers and sisters of thee, Resplendent September!

The West, when it blows at the fall of the noon And beats on the beaches, Is filled with a tender and tremulous tune That touches and teaches; The stories of Youth, of the burden of Time, And the death of Devotion, Come back with the wind, and are themes of the rhyme In the waves of the ocean.

We, having a secret to others unknown, In the cool mountain-mosses, May whisper together, September, alone Of our loves and our losses!

One word for her beauty, and one for the grace She gave to the hours; And then we may kiss her, and suffer her face To sleep with the flowers.

High places that knew of the gold and the white On the forehead of Morning Now darken and quake, and the steps of the Night Are heavy with warning.

Her voice in the distance is lofty and loud Through the echoing gorges; She hath hidden her eyes in a mantle of cloud, And her feet in the surges.

On the tops of the hills, on the turreted cones-- Chief temples of thunder-- The gale, like a ghost, in the middle watch moans, Gliding over and under.