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.