Araluen
—* A stream in the Braidwood district, New South Wales.—
River, myrtle rimmed, and setDeep amongst unfooted dells—Daughter of grey hills of wet,Born by mossed and yellow wells;
Now that soft September laysTender hands on thee and thine,Let me think of blue-eyed days,Star-like flowers and leaves of shine!
Cities soil the life with rust;Water banks are cool and sweet;River, tired of noise and dust,Here I come to rest my feet.
Now the month from shade to sunFleets and sings supremest songs,Now the wilful wood-winds runThrough the tangled cedar throngs.
Here are cushioned tufts and turnsWhere the sumptuous noontide lies:Here are seen by flags and fernsSummer’s large, luxurious eyes.
On this spot wan Winter castsEyes of ruth, and spares its greenFrom his bitter sea-nursed blasts,Spears of rain and hailstones keen.
Rather here abideth Spring,Lady of a lovely land,Dear to leaf and fluttering wing,Deep in blooms—by breezes fanned.
Faithful friend beyond the main,Friend that time nor change makes cold;Now, like ghosts, return againPallid, perished days of old.
Ah, the days!—the old, old theme,Never stale, but never new,Floating like a pleasant dream,Back to me and back to you.
Since we rested on these slopesSeasons fierce have beaten downArdent loves and blossoming hopes—Loves that lift and hopes that crown.
But, believe me, still mine eyesOften fill with light that springsFrom divinity, which liesEver at the heart of things.
Solace do I sometimes findWhere you used to hear with meSongs of stream and forest wind,Tones of wave and harp-like tree.
Araluen—home of dreams,Fairer for its flowerful gladeThan the face of Persian streamsOr the slopes of Syrian shade;
Why should I still love it so,Friend and brother far away?Ask the winds that come and go,What hath brought me here to-day.
Evermore of you I think,When the leaves begin to fall,Where our river breaks its brink,And a rest is over all.
Evermore in quiet lands,Friend of mine beyond the sea,Memory comes with cunning hands,Stays, and paints your face for me.