The Wattle

Uncurled from the mould, love on his knees,
A golden blossom blooms—
The wattle welcomes her back with a wild motion,
Above her, the shadow dances free.
For out of the sun, the whispers arise
And drift through the sorrows of trees;
Like the scents of the earth beneath her,
The heat speaks softly, nature teaches,
Fingers glide gently through pain.
Oh, wattle! the story begun!
What
An illumination comes, with glance!

• Lesbia Harford