Reclining near his golden fire,
Alone within the silent bush,
He slowly smokes his evening briar
And listens to the hovering hush.
The flames are points of falchion-blades,
Light-giving in their wheel and dance;
They gild the underleaf that fades
Above into a glooming trance.
The boles around rise to the night,
Ashen and grey, in solemn-wise,
Opening a heaven of starry light,
Dark violet-blue of nameless dyes.
Thoughts, many as the leaves in the wood,
Touched by the autumnal cold,
That fall and lie in drifting floods,
Draw home with legendary gold.
Fanned from the fire of a burning brand
Lights the bronzed glade with vivid glow;
On earth he whispering lays his hand:
‘Mother, to thy calm rest I go.’
The Australian Literature Review