Back where the ragged scrub-line surges
Away to the hot horizon's line,
Out where the winds croon eerie dirges
Night and day through the dusty pine.
Where only the Spring weaves flowers for token,
And only the dew leaves quiet tears,
They lie by the heights and the foothills broken,
The graves of the first lone pioneers.
Scattered afar, through nature's hallways
Of towering ash or tossing palm,
West by that central plain that always
Keeps inviolate dreadful calm.
And we, who walk in the crowded places
Where arc lights flare and swift wheels go,
(Careless crowds among crowding faces),
Little remember the debt we owe.
To those who lie there all unrequited
Where the grass-tree raises its velvet spears
In the vast cathedral of God, star lighted,
The outpost graves of the pioneers.
First published in The Windsor and Richmond Gazette, 14 November 1930
