<h2> The Daylight is Dying </h2>
<p>The daylight is dying<br/>
Away in the west,<br/>
The wild birds are flying<br/>
In silence to rest;<br/>
In leafage and frondage<br/>
Where shadows are deep,<br/>
They pass to its bondage —<br/>
The kingdom of sleep.<br/>
And watched in their sleeping<br/>
By stars in the height,<br/>
They rest in your keeping,<br/>
Oh, wonderful night.<br/>
<br/>
When night doth her glories<br/>
Of starshine unfold,<br/>
'Tis then that the stories<br/>
Of bush-land are told.<br/>
Unnumbered I hold them<br/>
In memories bright,<br/>
But who could unfold them,<br/>
Or read them aright?<br/>
Beyond all denials<br/>
The stars in their glories<br/>
The breeze in the myalls<br/>
Are part of these stories.<br/>
The waving of grasses,<br/>
The song of the river<br/>
That sings as it passes<br/>
For ever and ever,<br/>
The hobble-chains' rattle,<br/>
The calling of birds,<br/>
The lowing of cattle<br/>
Must blend with the words.<br/>
Without these, indeed, you<br/>
Would find it ere long,<br/>
As though I should read you<br/>
The words of a song<br/>
That lamely would linger<br/>
When lacking the rune,<br/>
The voice of the singer,<br/>
The lilt of the tune.<br/>
<br/>
But, as one half-hearing<br/>
An old-time refrain,<br/>
With memory clearing,<br/>
Recalls it again,<br/>
These tales, roughly wrought of<br/>
The bush and its ways,<br/>
May call back a thought of<br/>
The wandering days,<br/>
And, blending with each<br/>
In the mem'ries that throng,<br/>
There haply shall reach<br/>
You some echo of song.<br/></p>
<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"></SPAN></p>
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