Dark stands the hill, with a star on the crest of it;
Dark looms the forest, deep-bosomed and still;
Loud sings the river, a star on the breast of it,
Down through the hollow of Nobody's Hill.
Round by the ridge and the islands that sunder it,
Swift where the waterfalls tumble and spill
Over the stones and the rocks that lie under it
Into the night beyond Nobody's Hill.
Points the tall poplar, a mark for the morning star,
Planted lang syne by a hand that is still,
Sentry-like set where the dogwood and bracken are
Hiding the ruins by Nobody's Hill.
Roof-tree long fallen and windowless eyes of it,
Heartbreak and hopelessness working their will...
Comes there a ghost where the summer winds sighs of it
Under the shoulder of Nobody's Hill?
Comes there a ghost, 'mid the ghosts of the apple-gums
Lifting dead boughs to blind Heaven, until
Over the ridge the rose of the morning comes,
New-born and sweet, over Nobody's Hill?
Where by the hearthstone the rafter-beam rotten is,
Filled with the fern spray that wanders at will,
Leave them to-night and a name that forgotten is
Under the shadow of Nobody's Hill.
First published in The Bulletin, 15 March 1933
