177 . Australian Spring

THE BLEAK-FACED Winter, with his braggart winds

(Coiled to his scrawny throat in tattered black),

Posts down the highway of his late domain,

His spurs like leeches in his bleeding hack.

He rides to reach the huge embattled hills

Where all the brooding summer he may lie

Engulfed in Kosciusko’s silent snow,

His shadow waving o’er the lofty sky.

And jolly Spring, with love and laughter gay

Full fountaining, lets loose her tide of bees

Upon the waking ember-flame of bloom

New kindled in the honey-scented trees.

The old, old man forsakes the chimney-hole,

Where erst he warmed his bones and lazy blood,

And, clasping Molly to his wheezing breast,

Triumphant floats, cock-whoop, upon the flood.