The Daylight is Dying
The daylight is dyingAway in the west,The wild birds are flyingIn silence to rest;In leafage and frondageWhere shadows are deep,They pass to its bondage—The kingdom of sleep.And watched in their sleepingBy stars in the height,They rest in your keeping,Oh, wonderful night.
When night doth her gloriesOf starshine unfold,’Tis then that the storiesOf bush-land are told.Unnumbered I hold themIn memories bright,But who could unfold them,Or read them aright?Beyond all denialsThe stars in their gloriesThe breeze in the myallsAre part of these stories.The waving of grasses,The song of the riverThat sings as it passesFor ever and ever,The hobble-chains’ rattle,The calling of birds,The lowing of cattleMust blend with the words.Without these, indeed, youWould find it ere long,As though I should read youThe words of a songThat lamely would lingerWhen lacking the rune,The voice of the singer,The lilt of the tune.
But, as one half-hearingAn old-time refrain,With memory clearing,Recalls it again,These tales, roughly wrought ofThe bush and its ways,May call back a thought ofThe wandering days,And, blending with eachIn the mem’ries that throng,There haply shall reachYou some echo of song.