The Plains

A land, as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow
Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go
Like shifting symbols of hope deferred - land where you never know.

Land of the plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance,
Feast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance,
Where Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance.

And we catch a sound of a fairy's song, as the wind goes whipping by,
Or a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry
- Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor, where the bones of the cattle lie.

by Banjo Paterson

Comments (8)

....a wonderful poem with a beautiful ending ★
Nature poet Wordsworth's yet another poem immerses in the healing waves of sea well!
the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest aren't we all seeking our nests..
Soothing recompence with the muse of nature. Nice piece.
A delightful poem from a master poet.
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