The Country Calls Me.
96
I hear her calling
From far, from far,
Across the blue of the rolling plain
Where the heat-haze shimmers like golden rain,
In silver tones from the hidden creek
Where a bell-bird is dipping his eager beak,
And in whispers, soft as kisses,
From the gorge where the pine grow? straight and tall
And the fearless fronds of fern-trees fall
O'er the lips of precipices,
From the wide, sweet breath of her dusky dells
Where a curlew ringeth her nightly knells,
From out of her great, sad, brooding heart
Where never man hath lot or part,
From the wind, from the cloud, from the leafless tree,
From the desert sands where no footprints be,
Prom her solitude and her mystery
The country calls me.
From far, from far,
Across the blue of the rolling plain
Where the heat-haze shimmers like golden rain,
In silver tones from the hidden creek
Where a bell-bird is dipping his eager beak,
And in whispers, soft as kisses,
From the gorge where the pine grow? straight and tall
And the fearless fronds of fern-trees fall
O'er the lips of precipices,
From the wide, sweet breath of her dusky dells
Where a curlew ringeth her nightly knells,
From out of her great, sad, brooding heart
Where never man hath lot or part,
From the wind, from the cloud, from the leafless tree,
From the desert sands where no footprints be,
Prom her solitude and her mystery
The country calls me.
