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| THE LOCUST drones along the drowsy noon, | |
| The brown bee lingers in the yellow foam, | |
| Blossom on blossom searching deep, but soon | |
| Slides heavy-wingèd home. | |
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| The vacant air, half visible, complains | 5 |
| All overburdened of its noontide hour; | |
| Sound after sound in heavy silence wanes | |
| At the strong sun’s burning power. | |
| |
| Let the strong sun burn down the barren plain | |
| And scour the empty heaven, and twist the air | 10 |
| To filmiest flickerings, o’er us in vain | |
| His hollow vault doth glare. | |
| |
| For us gnarled boughs and massive boles o’ershade, | |
| And tall bulrushes guard us with green spears | |
| From the grim noon; our dewy jewelled glade | 15 |
| Never a footstep nears. | |
| |
| Come feast with us; behold our fragrant store | |
| Of candied locusts, that no longer drone | |
| Through summer eves, but transmigrated, pour | |
| Thin goblin monotone | 20 |
| |
| Through eucalyptine stillness as we rouse | |
| Our gnomy anthem to the answering trees, | |
| While gold-eyed toad-guards of our hidden house | |
| Croak full-fed choruses. | |
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| Come visit us; O follow till you find | 25 |
| In some green shade our secret banquetings, | |
| Where brolgas dance, and, some great stem behind, | |
| A hidden lyrebird sings. | |
| |
| Ask of the eaglehawk in the blue air, | |
| Ask of the chattering parrot, he should tell; | 30 |
| Fat possum in the tree bole, furry bear, | |
| Us beast and bird know well. | |
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| The silver lizard on the sun-baked stone, | |
| The green-flecked tree-snake in his circle coiled, | |
| Dreaming of evil, man, and man alone | 35 |
| Missed us, howe’er he toiled. | |
| |
| Come feast thou with us; ancient kings of all, | |
| We are the mystery at the heart of noon, | |
| Weird unseen chucklers when long shadows fall | |
| From the misleading moon. | 40 |
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| We are the spirits of distorted trees; | |
| We beckon down dim gullies, far astray, | |
| Till lost, deep lost, the wild-eyed traveller sees | |
| Dark at the heart of day. | |
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| And oh, we laughed about his last choked groans | 45 |
| Beside the water that he sought so long, | |
| And oh, we danced about his clean-picked bones | |
| To a gnomy undersong. | |
| |
| For all the day we chuckle and provoke | |
| With mocking shapes and noises each bright hour, | 50 |
| But when dark even from his grave hath broke | |
| Then are we lords of power. | |
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