QUEENSLAND WOODS
Woods are such lovely things! The sheeny bean,
The cypress pine that tells on windy eves
Its scented story to the summer rain;
And silky-oak wherein the fairies wrote
Their alphabet a hundred years ago;
The shelly paleness of the dainty pine,
Bloodwood and box and ripe mahogany:
I sometimes think these modest pantry-shelves,
These grand pianos, and these polished floors,
These office chairs, these shiny roll-top desks,
If we could hear them, could make us a book
Of things extraordinary, that the night
Has leaned to whisper down the rustling dark
To the frail crests of heaven-seeking things.
What violins of wings the boughs have known!
What little joyous feathered roundelays!
The woven nests, the home of sticks and mud,
Or plaited cosy corners of the birds;
The palpitating possum on the branch,
Hearing far off the threat of dogs and men,
Has clawed his fear into the bleeding bough;
The parrot preened the glory of his wing;
The bronze-wing pigeon cooed his spring-tide tale;
The grey dove moaned o'er lost, forgotten things.
White winter rains have beaten on the leaves;
Drought has pressed down the sap in dying twigs;
The cypress pine that tells on windy eves
Its scented story to the summer rain;
And silky-oak wherein the fairies wrote
Their alphabet a hundred years ago;
The shelly paleness of the dainty pine,
Bloodwood and box and ripe mahogany:
I sometimes think these modest pantry-shelves,
These grand pianos, and these polished floors,
These office chairs, these shiny roll-top desks,
If we could hear them, could make us a book
Of things extraordinary, that the night
Has leaned to whisper down the rustling dark
To the frail crests of heaven-seeking things.
What violins of wings the boughs have known!
What little joyous feathered roundelays!
The woven nests, the home of sticks and mud,
Or plaited cosy corners of the birds;
The palpitating possum on the branch,
Hearing far off the threat of dogs and men,
Has clawed his fear into the bleeding bough;
The parrot preened the glory of his wing;
The bronze-wing pigeon cooed his spring-tide tale;
The grey dove moaned o'er lost, forgotten things.
White winter rains have beaten on the leaves;
Drought has pressed down the sap in dying twigs;
