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Wattle Gold

Edward S. Sorenson

Down where a spring rill dashes,
    Proudly the wattles stand,
Touched with the fire that splashes,
    Only from Nature’s hand.
And many a bright wing flashes,
    Many a story’s told,
Under the shade when the sward is made
    Gay with the wattle gold.

Gem of the wild that blesses
    Valley and woodland ways,
Nought that the wind caresses
    Rivals your wonder sprays,
Spilling from fluffy tresses,
    Ever as they grow old,
Softly around on the sheltered ground,
    Showers of wattle gold.

Gilding the crag and cranny,
    Flaring in forest gloom,
Memories fond and many
    Cling in your boughs and bloom;
Echoes of love and any
    Treasures the dead years hold,
Wake, as the breeze and the humming bees
    Scatter the wattle gold.

Dear to the bushland rover
    In days when the spring wind blows,
And many a gay-plumed lover
    Comes where the small rill flows,
Seeking the scented cover,
    And e’re, as your charms unfold,
Helping to spread from your radiant head
    Carpets of wattle gold.

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