The Daylight is Dying

The daylight is dying    Away in the west,

The wild birds are flying    In silence to rest;

In leafage and frondage    Where shadows are deep,

They pass to its bondage—    The kingdom of sleep.

And watched in their sleeping    By stars in the height,

They rest in your keeping,    Oh, wonderful night.

When night doth her glories    Of starshine unfold,’Tis then that the stories    Of bush-land are told.

Unnumbered I hold them    In memories bright,

But who could unfold them,    Or read them aright?

Beyond all denials    The stars in their

The breeze in the myalls    Are part of these stories.

The waving of grasses,    The song of the

That sings as it passes    For ever and ever,

The hobble-chains’ rattle,    The calling of birds,

The lowing of cattle    Must blend with the words.

Without these, indeed, you    Would find it ere long,

As though I should read you    The words of a

That lamely would linger    When lacking the rune,

The voice of the singer,    The lilt of the tune.

But, as one half-hearing    An old-time refrain,

With memory clearing,    Recalls it again,

These tales, roughly wrought of    The bush and its ways,

May call back a thought of    The wandering days,

And, blending with each    In the memories that throng,

There haply shall reach    You some echo of song.