After the Storm
The wrinkled forehead of the sky
Doth chase the sunbeams as they fly,
Like pale nuns in retreat.
Each drooping, half-averted eye,
Wet lashed with rain drops; and the sweet
Fresh earth is surfeited;
A frail, weak invalid, the Day
Hath risen from her bed.
And I am wearied, and my brain
Is drowsed with murmur of the rain;
Too dull am I for mirth,
Yet too indifferent for pain.
The shadows ride upon the earth
Grey pickets of the Night,
That drive before them on the plain
The fugitives of Light.
‘After the Storm,’ Bulletin 5 Jan 1905: 3. NSW.
See also Verses 1905: 40.