For me, the open wastes of sky,
Far from the surging street!
A wild, fast wind that trumpets by,
And grass beneath my feet!
Mine are the misty roads that break
The distant, phantom blue,
And mine the first-glad steps that shake
From jewelled turf, the dew!
O singing wind from sunset cones,
What hast thou whispered me?
What secrets breathed into my bones?
What have I seen with thee?
The first frail clematis that wreathes
The amethystine woods,
The first pale harbinger that breathes,
The curling orchid-buds!
The bronzed beetle have I found,
The rich leaf-mould beneath,
The sunburnt bracken raindrop browned,
The earliest spikes of heath!
The first brave flash of robin's wings --
Have heard the cuckoos' notes
Thrill plaintive through the twitterings
Of pulsing, feathered throats!
For me the waning afternoon,
The stormy sunset sky,
The tired winds that trailing croon
A mother's lullaby;
And mine the peace of tracks that twine,
And vanish down the hill,
Where through the rustling dark there shine,
Upon the evening still,
The little lights in windows set,
The lights of little homes;
And on the hearth the flames that fret,
And mock the heart that roams.
For me the road that fancy rides,
The feet that may not rest;
The far blue hill that always hides
For wanderers -- the best!
First published in The Australasian, 10 July 1920
