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 mem’ries that throng,

 

There haply shall reach

 

You some echo of song.