Each drooping leaf in its loose-bound sheaf,
Each wilted bough in the gas lamps' flare,
Tells of the stillness of night-bound trees,
Of the fresh, sweet breath of the wattle breeze,
Of mountain ranges afar and fair.
A pleasant thing is the whiff of Spring
As I stand alone by the river bridge;
Poor exiled branches I have to thank,
You showed me the pine trees rank on rank,
And the sandy patch by Stony Ridge.
The dusty track of the drover's pack,
The forest aisles that the dawn mists keep;
Crushed gum leaves odorous, and rustling grass,
And a girl's face watching us as we pass,
Bound for the coast with travelling sheep.
First published in The Queenslander, 17 August 1904
