Where is the blackbird's golden note,
Flung from a topmost garden bough?
Gone, and, under the vague remote
Noonday blue, he is silent now.
The thrushes are dumb, and vanished long;
The cuckoos' plaintive and sweet refrain,
Over the paddocks blown along
A windy ruffle of springtime rain.
Where are the green cicadas now?
The fairy fiddles of summer noon,
Gone, and under the lightwood bough
Sadly the mild mole crickets croon.
About their shoulders the foot hills fold
A filmy shawl of the morning mist,
And the blue sea line and the ranges old
Are clad in a cloak of amethyst.
Magpie bells down the misty track,
Morning comes with a touch of rime.
But, while winter brings springtime back,
Some hearts keep autumn all of the time;
And that, I fear, is the way with me,
Skies not weeping, yet always grey,
And the flag of defeat on flower and tree.
Since the close of the summer you went away.
First published in The Brisbane Courier, 21 June 1930
