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 /> Oh, 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 hold 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 the singer, <br /> The lilt of the tune. <br /> <br />But, as one half-hearing <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 /> <br />And, blending with each <br /> In the memories that throng, <br />There haply shall reach <br /> You some echo of song.<br /><br />Andrew Barton Paterson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-daylight-is-dying-2/
