The little path goes winding on amid the bending briar,
Where rifted hills are rosy with the sunset's fading fire;
But few there are that find it now, and very few inquire.
I know that on a day like this the river wind is blowing
All honey-scented with the breath of blossomed ti-tree growing
Above the dripping lady-fern and amber ripples flowing.
Perhaps the mist is rising now along the valley's pride,
Slow-trailing robes of silver like a shy and silent bride;
My lone heart so remembers it in dreams unsatisfied.
Past the homestead and the clearing and the ridges dark and dun
Come the quiet picture faintly on my memory one by one,
When the cattle pass the sliprails at the setting of the sun.
And an old-fashioned garden to wilderness has grown;
The springing saplings rustle where the rosy wreaths have blown --
The old grey Bush has taken and gathered back her own.
Pale milky stars a-glimmer in an after-glow of jade,
Dew diamonds in star shine, and jaspers in the shade,
And a bronzewing crooning softly in the musk and myrtle glade.
But no more I'll be dreaming, for such fancies hurt me so,
And the years have lost their lustre and the pulse of life beats slow
Since I swung the gate behind for the last time long ago.
First published in The Bulletin, 24 March 1927
