NOW comes the time when quiet showers soothe
    The wounds of Summer’s too intense embrace,
And gentle hands reach down softly to smooth
    The wrinkles from the garden’s sun-seared face;
    Quick little breezes race
Down thro’ the forest; swell, and die again,
    And saplings toss like merry boys at play,
And tall, time-roughened trees, like grave old men,
    Forgetting that the years have made them grey,
    Laugh with the laughing day.

The adolescent gaiety of Spring
    Long since has gone; the nestling birds have flown
Upon their own affairs on practised wing,
    Soon to devise housekeeping of their own;
    The garden’s guise has grown
Sedate, yet, waxing in maturity,
    Waxes in loveliness. No longer frail,
Brighter and sturdier blossoms tempt the bee
    For yet a space, before they droop and fail
    ’Neath Winter’s bitter flail.

Then flit about this fragrant countryside
    Exotic elves who ride the scented breeze:
Exiled but merry artists, ranging wide
    This land, to deck their lovely English trees
    In Autumn’s harmonies.
Her mellow mood has laughed out Summer’s pride;
And her gay henchmen, not to be denied,
    Yet riot as they please.

Past wattles dreaming of Spring’s coming song,
    About the land these gay elves peer and peek;
Past blackwood, Christmas-bush and kurrajong,
    Past grave old gums that mark the dwindling creek,
    For canvases they seek.
And in this clearing, sown these summers long
With ash and sumach, birch and poplar strong,
    They make one merry week.

Now in my garden, as each morning comes,
    In waxing beauty is the picture spread:
Before green backgrounds of the sober gums
    Dawn purple, russet-brown and gold and red;
    The tenderer green has fled.
And while grim Winter rolls advancing drums,
In splendid motley, as each leaf succumbs,
    Cool earth is carpeted.

Red glows the sumach by the poplar’s gold;
    Translucent amber, burning bright and clear,
Like hope aflame, and tints a thousandfold
    Marching in glorious pageantry appear.
    High festival is here
That laughs at death—a wonder to behold . . . 
“Now,” sigh the trees, “we sleep; for we are cold.
    Call us when Spring is near.”