Gum-trees, nothing but gum-trees! miles upon miles of them,
With here and there a solitary “box,” or a bottle-brush with its stem
Stunted out of proportion: Look! how the loose bark flaps!
Is it the dead in their winding-sheets? is it ghosts of the past perhaps?
Letters? I’ve had no letters for a weary week, or more;
A month-old paper’s a joy to me, I read it o’er and o’er.
What do I know of politics, of empires fall’n or risen,
Of strikes, or wars, or life, or laws, shut in my gum-tree prison?
Ignorant? I should think so! lost touch with wiser men;—
Live in the Bush, like me, a bit:—you’d lose your culture then!
It’s oh to pace the pavement, rub shoulders with the crowd,
Clasp hands again with fellow-men, hear greetings long and loud!
68
