She was born in the season of fire, 
When a mantle of murkiness lay 
On the front of the crimson Destroyer: 
And none knew the name of her sire 
But the woman; and she, ashen grey, 
In the fierce pangs of motherhood lay. 

The skies were aflame at her coming 
With a marvellous message of ill; 
And fear-stricken pinions were drumming 
The hot, heavy air, whence the humming 
Of insects rose, sudden and shrill, 
As they fled from that hell-begirt hill. 

Then the smoke-serpent writhed in her tresses: 
The flame kissed her hard on the lips: 
She smiled at their ardent caresses 
As the wanton who smiles, but represses 
A lover's hot haste, and so slips 
From the arm that would girdle her hips. 

Such the time of her coming and fashion: 
How long ere her day shall be sped, 
And she goes to rekindle past passion 
With languorous glances that flash on 
The long-straightened limbs of the dead, 
Where they lie in a winter-wet bed? 

Where the wide waves of evergreen carry 
The song sad and soft of the surge 
To feathered battalions that harry 
The wizen-armed bloodwoods that tarry 
For ever, chained down on the verge 
Of a river that mutters a dirge. 

'Tis a dirge for the dead men it mutters? 
Those weed-entwined strangers who lie 
With the drift in the whirlpools and gutters? 
Swoll'n hand or a garment that flutters 
Wan shreds as the waters rush by, 
And the flotsam, froth-freckled, rides high. 

Is it there that she buries her lovers, 
This woman in scarlet and black? 
Those swart caballeros, the drovers? 
What sovranty set they above hers? 
Riding in by a drought-beset track 
To a fate which is worse than the rack. 

A queen, no insignia she weareth 
Save the dark, lustrous crown of her hair: 
Her beauty the sceptre she beareth: 
For men and their miseries careth 
As little as tigresses care 
For the quivering flesh that they tear. 

She is sweet as white peppermint flowers, 
And harsh as red gum when it drips 
From the heart of a hardwood that towers 
Straight up: she hath marvellous powers 
To draw a man's soul through his lips 
With a kiss like the stinging of whips. 

Warm nights, weighted down with wild laughter, 
When sex is unsexed and uncouth: 
In the chorus that climbs to the rafter 
No thought of the days to come after: 
She has little regret and less ruth 
As she tempts men to murder their youth. 

Is she marked down as yet by the flaming 
Great eye of the Righter of Wrong? 
How long ere the Dreaded One, claiming 
His due, shall make end of our shaming? 
`How long, Mighty Father, how long?' 
Is our wearisome burden of song.

A queen, no insignia she weareth 
Save the dark, lustrous crown of her hair: 
Her beauty the sceptre she beareth: 
For men and their miseries careth 
As little as tigresses care 
For the quivering flesh that they tear. 

She is sweet as white peppermint flowers, 
And harsh as red gum when it drips 
From the heart of a hardwood that towers 
Straight up: she hath marvellous powers 
To draw a man's soul through his lips 
With a kiss like the stinging of whips. 

Warm nights, weighted down with wild laughter, 
When sex is unsexed and uncouth: 
In the chorus that climbs to the rafter 
No thought of the days to come after: 
She has little regret and less ruth 
As she tempts men to murder their youth. 

Is she marked down as yet by the flaming 
Great eye of the Righter of Wrong? 
How long ere the Dreaded One, claiming 
His due, shall make end of our shaming? 
`How long, Mighty Father, how long?' 
Is our wearisome burden of song.