Dorothea Mackellar


The morns are growing misty, the nights are turning cold,
The linden leaves are falling like a shower of gold;
And over where my heart is, beneath the southern sun,
The shearing’s nearly over and the spring’s begun.

The crying flocks are driven to feed in peace again,
They stream and spread and scatter on the smooth green plain,
And in the sky above them the soft spring breezes keep
A flock of clouds as snowy as the new-shorn sheep.

Now later comes the sunshine and sooner comes the dark,
The barefoot newsboys shiver, the ladies in the Park
Wear furs about their shoulders, for autumn winds are keen,
And rusty curling edges fleck the chestnuts’ green.

The mists hang gauzy curtains of pearl and pigeon-blue
Between us and the distance, the street-lamps shining through
Wear each a golden halo diaphanous and fair—
But not one whit more lovely than my own clear air.

More clear than you can dream it, as bright as diamond
It bathes the plains and ridges and the hills beyond,
It bathes the pillared woodlands that ring with bellbird notes,
With mating calls and answers from a thousand throats.

The lamps are lit in London, beneath their searching light
The smiling anxious faces look strained and very white;
And over where my heart is, twelve thousand miles away,
The dewy grass is glinting at the break of day.