Smoke rising straightly in the green airs of even,
The husky note of an early owl,
Swift, like a dark line drawn 'cross heaven,
The homeward flight of the marshland fowl.
Some late wren in the tea-tree thicket
Tinkles his thin, sweet notes of glass;
Somewhat sadly a lonely cricket
Fiddles away in the fescue grass.
The table is set and the kettle's singing,
Grey dusk gathers, and it's growing late.
Silent at last is the axe's ringing,
And a step turns in by the homestead gate.
Someone's smile has the sunshine's lending,
Eager the welcome in someone's eyes....
Ah, well for the toiler at the long day's ending
In his own little corner of Paradise!
First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 1 January 1929
See also.
