Walking down the windy valley,
Where the flowers were flung like spray
In the glimmering myrtle valley,
Soon I tossed my hat away --
Laughed down places dark and shady,
Clambered through the underbrush,
Till a voice came sweet, reproving,
Where the myrtle boughs were moving,
"Be a lady,"
Sang the thrush.
There was none to see or hear me --
Off I pushed my cramping shoes --
Danced down leafy pathways near me
Toward the valley's distant blues;
Danced down vistas damp and shady,
Bare feet in the grasses lush,
Where the earth was starred with yellow,
Still that voice came mocking, mellow,
"Be a lady,"
Sang the thrush.
First published in The Australasian, 15 October 1932
