The Man from Snowy River, by A. B. Paterson

The Daylight is Dying

The daylight is dying

  Away in the west,

The wild birds are flying

  In silence to rest;

In leafage and frondage

  Where shadows are deep,

They pass to its bondage —

  The kingdom of sleep.

And watched in their sleeping

  By stars in the height,

They rest in your keeping,

  Oh, wonderful night.

When night doth her glories

  Of starshine unfold,

’Tis then that the stories

  Of bush-land are told.

Unnumbered I hold them

  In memories bright,

But who could unfold them,

  Or read them aright?

Beyond all denials

  The stars in their glories

The breeze in the myalls

  Are part of these stories.

The waving of grasses,

  The song of the river

That sings as it passes

  For ever and ever,

The hobble-chains’ rattle,

  The calling of birds,

The lowing of cattle

  Must blend with the words.

Without these, indeed, you

  Would find it ere long,

As though I should read you

  The words of a song

That lamely would linger

  When lacking the rune,

The voice of the singer,

  The lilt of the tune.

But, as one half-hearing

  An old-time refrain,

With memory clearing,

  Recalls it again,

These tales, roughly wrought of

  The bush and its ways,

May call back a thought of

  The wandering days,

And, blending with each

  In the mem’ries that throng,

There haply shall reach

  You some echo of song.

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:59