The thrushes are singing again; I can hear their delight
Down leaf-littered aisles where the beaded rain drips from the bushes,
Where autumn's bright candles burn down to the edges of night
In cinnamon, scarlet and ashes of gold, hear the thrushes!
Before the first wattle flings odorous gifts to the gale,
Before the first snows to the blossoming almonds belong,
They flute to the early star, luminous, lovely and pale,
Or herald the dawn with a delicate tribute of song.
It seems that the singers have chanced on a secret divine;
For, oh, when the sunset dies low into desolate embers,
I guess at a gladness too airily bright to be mine,
In the magic that mortals forget and the grey bird remembers.
First published in The Bulletin, 3 June 1936
