Above the golden meadow
Crying his joy aloud,
The skylark is a shadow
That slants across a cloud,
A very little shadow upon a vasty cloud
That leans against the splendid
Blue battlements of day,
In sunny airs suspended,
As silver-white as spray,
As white as are the tea-tree buds
On frosted branch and spray.
The soft October morning
Is mantled like a bride;
For, mile on mile adorning
The scented countryside,
The tea-tree strews a million stars
Along the countryside.
The pines put forth new candles,
New gum-tip tapers burn,
A march of golden vandals
Among the bracken fern,
The capeweed's countless hordes invade
The hillsides and the fern.
This soft October morning
Shall have its way, and I,
My petty troubles scorning,
Shall turn and put them by.
Be glad with all the golden day
And let the world go by.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 30 October 1937
