Free from their prison the storm winds have burst
In a galloping pack;
Foaming and loud over deserts of cloud,
Night like an outlaw flees hunted and curst –
The hounds on her track.
What does it matter the praise or the blame?
Great souls of the past
That sculptured and wrought in the marble of thought,
Crowd in the darkness and call on my name
Through lips of the blast.
Out where the wind seeketh, sobbing and spent,
The lap of the plain,
Forms from the north rise and beckon me forth;
Vain would I seek them, but lo! they are bent
Grey shapes of the rain!
Are they but shore-drift – the breath of the night,
And spume of the sea?
”Take up the cross of the longing and loss”–
Oh voice of the Storm, do I hear it aright –
Thy summons to me?
‘Storm Spirit,’ Bulletin 9 Feb 1905: 3. NSW.
See also Verses 1905: 49.