Roderic Quinn

1867 - 1949 / Australia

The Lagoon

WE crept through reed-beds wet with dew,
The sun went down in gold;
Hoisting her round triumphantly,
The moon showed red and bold.
The unseen sea upon our right
In splendid turmoil broke;
The spindrift, driving ceaselessly,
Was vague as drifting smoke.
The grass-tree lances spiked our flesh,
The brushed ferns wet our knees;
The she-oaks, crooning steadily,
Stirred in the late salt breeze.
Thus, pushing on with velvet tread
Beneath the lavish moon,
We saw, spread wide, spread gloriously,
All gold, the still lagoon.
And on its breast (a picture this
Recalling old-time Dons
And Spanish galleons at sea)
A squadron of black swans.
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