The daylight is dying <br />Away in the west, <br />The wild birds are flying <br />in silence to rest; <br />In leafage and frondage <br />Where shadows are deep, <br />They pass to its bondage-- <br />The kingdom of sleep <br />And watched in their sleeping <br />By stars in the height, <br />They rest in your keeping, <br />O wonderful night. <br />When night doth her glories <br />Of starshine unfold, <br />'Tis then that the stories <br />Of bush-land are told. <br /> <br />Unnumbered I told them <br />In memories bright, <br />But who could unfold them, <br />Or read them aright? <br />Beyond all denials <br />The stars in their glories, <br />The breeze in the myalls, <br />Are part of these stories. <br /> <br />The waving of grasses, <br />The song of the river <br />That sings as it passes <br />For ever and ever, <br />The hobble-chains' rattle, <br />The calling of birds, <br />The lowing of cattle <br />Must blend with the words. <br /> <br />Without these, indeed you <br />Would find it ere long, <br />As though I should read you <br />The words of a song <br />That lamely would linger <br />When lacking the rune, <br />The voice of a singer, <br />The lilt of the tune. <br /> <br />But as one halk-bearing <br />An old-time refrain, <br />With memory clearing, <br />Recalls it again, <br />These tales roughly wrought of <br />The Bush and its ways, <br />May call back a thought of <br />The wandering days; <br />And, blending with each <br />In the memories that throng <br />There haply shall reach <br />You some echo of song. <br /><br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/daylight-is-dying/
