The rousing sun’s sea-dance and dazzle
Burnishes grassy cape and cliff,
But under leaves is quenched, refracted
To shifting grey-gold hieroglyph.
A wind brings word the tireless ocean
Washes afresh the new-born beach,
And every bush bird of the morning
Bursts into Pentecostal speech.
Robin and wattle-bird and whistler
With lark and thrush, each in his tongue –
Well might you say, These birds are drunken,
Were not the morning still so young.
Such prodigal and pure abandon
In ecstasy so clear and strong
Each heart and throat and breath and being
Was wholly emptied into song.
They did not sing for hunger, courtship,
Or listening ear of praise or blame,
Only because the appointed signal
Came down and touched them like a flame.