64
THE CREEK IN THE SCRUB
I know, when the sun is westering,
How a bright sail slants like a swooping wing;
I know how the shore grows fuchsia-pale
When sunset beats with his blood-red flail
The billowing gold from the fields of blue
To lead the gleaners of twilight through;
And I know that the noon has clasped the bay
With an opal chain on a silver spray.
I see at morn how the samphire strays
Till a streak of jade through the turquoise plays,
How the dawn strings pearls for the breast of night,
And the south wind laces the waves with white.
How a bright sail slants like a swooping wing;
I know how the shore grows fuchsia-pale
When sunset beats with his blood-red flail
The billowing gold from the fields of blue
To lead the gleaners of twilight through;
And I know that the noon has clasped the bay
With an opal chain on a silver spray.
I see at morn how the samphire strays
Till a streak of jade through the turquoise plays,
How the dawn strings pearls for the breast of night,
And the south wind laces the waves with white.
But I also know that my heart must seek
A spice-sweet scrub and a bouldered creek,
Where a tree-fern leans like a link across
The orange fungi, the emerald moss.
A spice-sweet scrub and a bouldered creek,
Where a tree-fern leans like a link across
The orange fungi, the emerald moss.
