I.
Oh, I would sing,
Oh, I would sing
Of the hot sands in the sun,
The little white waves that one by one
Up to the ti-tree swing,
Of the coarse sea-grass
And the clouds that pass
O'er the dunes on shadowy feet,
And the wind's cry,
And a lad's cry,
And the gulls with their little red feet!
II.
My song shall be of apple-boughs
That still as moon-light stay,
Red-fruited 'gainst a Summer sky
In brilliant applique.
With arms as brown as nuts I lie
Below that filmy blue
And feel the sun 'mid crisp young leaves
Come greenly filtering through.
Once, long ago, old apple-boughs
Patched burning skies for me --
Oh, far away that Summer day
When in the orchard-deeps I lay
In fairy Brittany!
III.
Oh, I would sing a splendid song
Of my love, but I have no words!
I have left my lyre, where its strings belong,
With the fresh, sweet earth, and the sky above,
And the shy little bushland birds.
I would sing a song of my first white love;
But I have no words!
First published in The Bulletin, 19 March 1925
