When Winter`s lowering storm unfurls
Its banners on the gale,
When, thunder-tongued, a torrent swirls
Adown each rugged vale,
And the great gums on the ridges fill
The bush with roaring sound,
The wattle`s bloom o`er vale and hill
Perfumes the bush around.
For Nature, like a Bacchanal,
In August`s stormy days,
The ranges binds in Winter`s thrall,
And through them wildly strays.
With raging gale and swol`n stream,
She decks the forest land
With lavish gifts of bloom which gleam
Like gold on every hand.
But not alone with stormy breath,
And clad with mists and rain,
She comes; her smiles would win from Death
Oh, she is wild and beautiful,
As wild and mad as they
Who left their labours dutiful
And went to dance and slay.