There is a way, in the mist-veiled summer valleys,
Where the voice of the trees intones a muted psalm,
Where the tired torrent takes breath awhile and dallies
In a haven of leafy calm.
Where the sky is a roof of cloudy opal over
The columned hills, and the air is sharp as wine,
And the coral fern and the crimson bramble cover
The bird-pool under the pine.
Little disturbs the peace there, and there by inches
The noonday sunlight follows the winding path,
Till all the way is sunlight, and the finches
Scatter their silver bath.
Where the moulding log retrieves her green with mosses,
And the mountain myrtle leans up to bluer air,
And the wavering spray in a drifting rainbow crosses
The rifts of maiden-hair.
And memory weaves a charm about the bracken,
For its earth made holy with sweetness overpast,
With the sanctity of our first kiss shyly taken,
And the sadness of our last.
First published in The Australasian, 6 July 1929
