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 glories

The breeze in the myalls

   Are part of these stories.

The waving of grasses,

   The song of the river

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 song

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.