August

 

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

  Eurydice, again.

Oh, she is wild and beautiful,

  As wild and mad as they

Who left their labours dutiful

  And went to dance and slay.

 

 

cit. aus:  >>> René Desor, Black Sunday & Poems of Light and Shade, Melbourne 1930