The Daylight is Dying

By Andrew Barton Paterson (`Banjo')

Born 2/17/1864

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 their 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 bushland 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.

DayPoems Poem No. 931
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/931.html">The Daylight is Dying by Andrew Barton Paterson (`Banjo')</a>

The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor

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