Eulone by Helen E. Eades

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The winds that here so faintly sigh,
   A soft and gentle breeze,
Are wailing where we need to be,
   Through grand old forest trees.
With a weary, weary sobbing,
   Like a restless spirit's moan;
Oh, the sweetness and the sadness
   Of the music at Eulone!

The same sweet moon is shining
   O'er the river banks to-night,
Changing the deep still waters
   To a sheet of gleaming light;
Turning darkness into blackness,
   'Neath the river gums that grew
Where they used to camp the cattle,
   Round the bend at Woomaroo.

Now the camp fires never blazes,
   Where the drover slept so sound,
With nothing for his pillow,
   But his saddle on the ground;
But now, through all the silent night,
   And through the long warm day,
No sound is heard but the waters
   Falling, falling, far away.

Only the distant waterfall
   Makes music all day long,
Singing to the forest trees,
   Its sweet melodious song;
The wild ducks there are seen at noon
   The rushes green among;
No footstep nears the broad lagoon,
   No sportsman with his gun.

And only through the night time,
   The morepoke's voice is heard,
And coming though the darkness,
   The cry of startled bird;
Only the song of the waters,
   And winds that wail and moan,
And whisper though the native oaks,
   All round silent Eulone.
Perhaps the winds that whisper,
   And sighs the boughs among,
Could tell a tale of other times,
   Of hearts so glad and young;
Of merry festive parties
   That will never meet again,
of boating on the river,
   And of riding on the plain.

And then at eve returning,
   Coming home to warmth and light,
Or watching sweetest twilight
   Deepen into darkest night;
And of plucking fairest flowers,
   Giving them in play and jest.
Did we offer none in earnest?
   Ah, the giver knoweth best!

And lingering in the moonlight,
   Learning language of the flowers,
Half jest, and half in earnest,
   Passed the pleasant evening hours:
All through the long hot summer time,
   And winter's rain and wind,
We thought not that the life we led
   Must soon be left behind.

The grey owl sits where roses bloomed,
   And hung around the door,
And wild dogs howl along the banks
   Where lovers walked of yore;
The whitewashed walls where swallows build
   With vines are overgrown,
And night birds cry where voices rang,
   All round thee, dear Eulone.

First published in The Australian Town & Country Journal, 14 June 1884.

nothing is known about the author of this poem.

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on June 14, 2011 8:36 AM.

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