Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/374

 The hymn of waters and the gale's high tone,

With anthems from the thunder's mountain throne,

Are with her ever. This, behold, is she

Who draws its great cry from the strong, sad sea;

She is the month of majesty. Her force

Is power that moves along a stately course,

Within the lines of order, like no wild

And lawless strength of winter's fiercest child.

About her are the wind-whipped torrents; far

Above her gleams and flies the stormy star,

And round her, through the highlands and their rocks,

Rings loud the grand speech from the equinox.

darling of Australia's Autumn—now

Down dewy dells the strong, swift torrents flow!

This is the month of singing waters—here

A tender radiance fills the Southern year;

No bitter winter sets on herb and root,

Within these gracious glades, a frosty foot;

The spears of sleet, the arrows of the hail,

Are here unknown. But down the dark green dale

Of moss and myrtle, and the herby streams,

This April wanders in a home of dreams;

Her flower-soft name makes language falter. All

Her paths are soft and cool, and runnels fall

In music round her; and the woodlands sing

For evermore, with voice of wind and wing,

Because this is the month of beauty—this

The crowning grace of all the grace that is.

sings a cool, bland wind, where falls and flows

The runnel by the grave of last year's rose;

Now, underneath the strong perennial leaves,

The first slow voice of wintering torrent grieves.

Now in a light like English August's day,

Is seen the fair, sweet, chastened face of May;

She is the daughter of the year who stands

With Autumn's last rich offerings in her hands;