You, who have dreamed all your life, here shall you dream no longer.
Red and strong is the shield of Life -- but the sword of Death is stronger;
His white wings hover overhead, and his white feet press the grasses,
And his whisper thrills round your bed when the silken north wind passes.
By the railing within the gate that your slumber-house encloses,
There you couch in your maiden state, with the grasses and the roses.
The wattle in the corner patch stretches arms across the fences,
Spills its gold on the rusted latch and smothers Death's bare defences.
Girl, of lands where the sun is bright, and girl who was made for loving,
Here you lie in the moonless night while the long, long hours are moving --
Lie where the tall blue grass is spread, alone, with no dreams to flout you,
Of lover's breast for your brown head, and a lover's arms about you.
I, who rode when the sun was low, to the unbarred western gate,
Undreading, careless, certain, slow -- to find that I rode too late,
Can call your name where the grass-spears start, can dream of ungarnered blisses,
But never hold you against my heart and teach you to wake with kisses!
First published in The Lone Hand, 2 May 1910
