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 its bondage-- 
The kingdom of sleep 
And watched in their sleeping 
By stars in the height, 
They rest in your keeping, 
O wonderful night. 
When night doth her glories 
Of starshine unfold, 
'Tis then that the stories 
Of bush-land are told. 

Unnumbered I told 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 a singer, 
The lilt of the tune. 

But as one halk-bearing 
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 memories that throng 
There haply shall reach 
You some echo of song.