Three roads there are that climb and wind <br />Amongst the hills, and leave behind <br />The patterned orchards, sloping down <br />To meet a little country town. <br /> <br />And of these roads I'll take the one <br />That tops the ridges, where the sun <br />Is tempered by the mountain-breeze <br />And dancing shadows of the trees. <br /> <br />The road is rough - but to my feet <br />Softer than is the city street; <br />And then the trees! - how beautiful <br />She-oak and gum - how fresh and cool! <br /> <br />No walls there are to hamper me; <br />Only in blue infinity <br />The distant mountain-ramparts rise <br />Beneath the broad arch of the skies. <br /> <br />And in that high place I shall hear <br />The wild birds' singing, soft and clear; <br />And horse-bells tinkling as of old <br />In amongst the wattles' gold <br /> <br />Far-off is the ocean tide; <br />But there across the country-side <br />Roll waves of bush that rise and fall <br />To break against the mountain-wall. <br /> <br />And every little farm is seen <br />An island in a sea of green; <br />And every little farm at night <br />Flings through the dark its beacon-light - <br /> <br />There in the silence of the hills, <br />I shall find peace that soothes and stills <br />The throbbing of the weary brain, - <br />For I am going home again.<br /><br />Dora Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-call-of-the-bush/
