Araluen

River, myrtle rimmed, and set     Deep amongst unfooted dells     Daughter of grey hills of wet,     Born by mossed and yellow wells;     Now that soft September lays     Tender hands on thee and thine,     Let me think of blue-eyed days,     Star-like flowers and leaves of shine!     Cities soil the life with rust;     Water banks are cool and sweet;     River, tired of noise and dust,     Here I come to rest my feet.     Now the month from shade to sun     Fleets and sings supremest songs,     Now the wilful wood-winds run     Through the tangled cedar throngs.     Here are cushioned tufts and turns     Where the sumptuous noontide lies:     Here are seen by flags and ferns     Summers large, luxurious eyes.     On this spot wan Winter casts     Eyes of ruth, and spares its green     From his bitter sea-nursed blasts,     Spears of rain and hailstones keen.     Rather here abideth Spring,     Lady of a lovely land,     Dear to leaf and fluttering wing,     Deep in blooms by breezes fanned.     Faithful friend beyond the main,     Friend that time nor change makes cold;     Now, like ghosts, return again     Pallid, perished days of old.     Ah, the days! the old, old theme,     Never stale, but never new,     Floating like a pleasant dream,     Back to me and back to you.     Since we rested on these slopes     Seasons fierce have beaten down     Ardent loves and blossoming hopes     Loves that lift and hopes that crown.     But, believe me, still mine eyes     Often fill with light that springs     From divinity, which lies     Ever at the heart of things.     Solace do I sometimes find     Where you used to hear with me     Songs of stream and forest wind,     Tones of wave and harp-like tree.     Araluen home of dreams,     Fairer for its flowerful glade     Than the face of Persian streams     Or the slopes of Syrian shade;     Why should I still love it so,     Friend and brother far away?     Ask the winds that come and go,     What hath brought me here to-day.     Evermore of you I think,     When the leaves begin to fall,     Where our river breaks its brink,     And a rest is over all.     Evermore in quiet lands,     Friend of mine beyond the sea,     Memory comes with cunning hands,     Stays, and paints your face for me.