'In bleak Toowoomba gardens, swept of flowers,
By cold west winds and withering with drought,
The wattles' grey-green leaves show burnishing
Of buds a-burgeoning to radiant bloom;
And in a few brief days the largesse of gold
For every hand to gather, will be thrown
Into the chilly lap of winter days.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem