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.
