Wind in the wattle tree
Wooing the gold,
Shaking the dew on me,
Troubadour bold.
Kiss the fair bloom as you kissed in your joy,
Tresses of Helen dishevelled in Troy.

Fairer than golden fruit,
Hercules brought,
Luning a maid's pursuit,
Witchery fraught.
Here, while I linger alone in the shrine,
Bring me, sweet blossom, a maiden divine.

Shyly the robin calls,
Rosy his breast,
Softly the pollen falls
Over the guest.
Largesse for minstrel who sings in the bower,
List to his passionate song to the flower.

Loving the rivulet,
Loitering near,
Deep in his bosom set,
Imaging clear.
Carries the tokens the morning bestows
Gold of the blossom, and blush of the rose.

Sold in a Paris street,
Often you glow,
Placed where poor Villon's feet
Strayed long ago.
Ah! might that master of Love's minstrelsy,
Lovingly fashion a lyric for thee.

See there a stranger stand,
Dreaming of home,
Of a dear native land
Over the foam.
Luminous, odorous how thy waves pour,
Through the grey forest surrounding his door.

Bloom of the wattle tree,
Soon you must die,
Fade like a melody,
Star from the sky.
Yearly renewed in your loveliness burn,—
Never to you will my footsteps return.

Glimmering, glamouring,
Slowly you sway,
My heart enamouring
All the spring day.
Fade, and returning in beauty arrayed,
Weave your sweet magic for man and for maid.