The bleak faced Winter, with his braggart winds
(Coiled to his scrawny throat in tattered black),
Posts down the highway of his late domain,
His spurs like leeches in his bleeding hack.
He rides to reach the huge embattled hills
Where all the brooding summer he may lie
Engulfed in Kosciusko’s silent snow,
His shadow waving o’er the lofty sky.
And jolly Spring, with love and laughter gay
Full fountaining, lets loose her tide of bees
Upon the waking ember-flame of bloom
New kindled in the honey-scented trees.
The old, old man forsakes the chimney-hole,
Where erst he warmed his bones and lazy blood,
And, clasping Molly to his wheezing breast,
Triumphant floats, cock-whoop, upon the flood.
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Comments about this poem (Australian Spring by Hugh McCrae )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- At my door, hasmukh amathalal
- Imagination but real, Mashiur Rahman
- I cant see you but I know you there, yolandey breedt
- Like an old-fashioned tradition, Kamini Arichandran
- Where are we?, Pintu Mahakul
- Gazing up the sky, Seira LNlee94
- no one has ever done good without....., RIC S. BASTASA
- the night deepens, RIC S. BASTASA
- to begin with....., RIC S. BASTASA
- who is someone in your mind?, RIC S. BASTASA