When the winds are whispering low and sweet,
Do you ever listen to what they say?
The tender cadence is blent with grief,
Soft as the sigh of a falling leaf,
As ever the murmurs slow repeat,
"You, too, oh mortals, must pass away."
To the variant moods of the errant breeze,
The burgeoning leaflets softly blow,
Their green veins thrill at the lightest touch
Or the great Wood Spirit they love so much;
And the song of Life is the song of these,
"The fairest leaves are the first to go."
Deep in the forest and by the streams,
Haunting us with its fragrant breath,
Is Wattle, whose delicate fingers must
Weave a silken carpet that turns to dust,
With her yellow hair, while she always dreams
Of the tryst to be kept with her lover, Death.
Life's Shadow Play with its silhouettes,
Its tragedy, farce, and its gay romance,
There, tense emotion, or languid grace,
Love, pain, and passion, all find a place,
If our lines had echoed no vain regrets
The music had drowned the dissonance.
Golden laughter may chase the tear,
Eyes so solemn can yet be gay,
Lips that meet in an ecstacy,
Souls be tuned to the richest key,
But the sweetest notes are the last we hear,
For the end of the Song must come, some day.
First published in The Brisbane Courier, 17 October 1925
Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography
See also.
Do you ever listen to what they say?
The tender cadence is blent with grief,
Soft as the sigh of a falling leaf,
As ever the murmurs slow repeat,
"You, too, oh mortals, must pass away."
To the variant moods of the errant breeze,
The burgeoning leaflets softly blow,
Their green veins thrill at the lightest touch
Or the great Wood Spirit they love so much;
And the song of Life is the song of these,
"The fairest leaves are the first to go."
Deep in the forest and by the streams,
Haunting us with its fragrant breath,
Is Wattle, whose delicate fingers must
Weave a silken carpet that turns to dust,
With her yellow hair, while she always dreams
Of the tryst to be kept with her lover, Death.
Life's Shadow Play with its silhouettes,
Its tragedy, farce, and its gay romance,
There, tense emotion, or languid grace,
Love, pain, and passion, all find a place,
If our lines had echoed no vain regrets
The music had drowned the dissonance.
Golden laughter may chase the tear,
Eyes so solemn can yet be gay,
Lips that meet in an ecstacy,
Souls be tuned to the richest key,
But the sweetest notes are the last we hear,
For the end of the Song must come, some day.
First published in The Brisbane Courier, 17 October 1925
Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography
See also.
