While The Billy BoilsSearchCease, chill breeze, nor wildly blowO’er my snowdrops bending low;In thy wind-vaults pented be,By the billow-beaten sea,Only spare the springtide’s primeIn the golden wattle-time!
Cease, rude rains, nor sully so,All our bright September glow;In the arching heavens pure,Let thy waters be secure;Only spare the vernal primeOf a world in wattle-time.
Ope, ye skies of rayless grey,Let the buried sun have sway!Fainting are the new-born flowers,Pining for the summer’s hours:—Shall they meet a cruel clime,Blowing buds of wattle-time?
Summer noons are drawing nigh,Spaces far of radiant sky;Summer dawns that may unclosePetals of a redder rose;But, tho’ touched with lingering rime,Sweet are buds of wattle-time.
So, ye stormy winds, sink low;Heavy floods no longer flow:Smile, fair heaven, thro’ the shrouds,Chase the darkling, lowering clouds.Cherish ye the springtide prime,—’Tis not always wattle-time!