Dew on the grassy uplands stretching forward,
Bloom of the grape on brown hills far away,
And blown above the blue waves sparkling shoreward,
The Sunday bells across Corio Bay.
All in the golden quiet of the morning
Knee-deep in wildflower weed and feathery grass,
Only the sapling's crown my roof adorning,
I hear the airy echoes pause and pass.
Down the low wind the silver clamor surges,
Swells to its full, and faintly ebbs away,
One with the infinite fields of azure merges
The sound of bells across Corio Bay.
Phantasies old of other years awaking
Fragments of lost delight and morning prime;
Strung on a strand of silver numbers shaking
All the warm airs of drowsy summer time.
There was a year we used to walk together
Through the tall grasses by a ferny brae,
Hearing adown the fairy golden weather
The Sunday bells across Corio Bay.
I wonder if your happy ghost goes straying
Over the headlands to the grassy hill?
The sleepy things the sighing pines are saying
To the soft waters, are you hearing still
Where harps AEolian with the waters blending
Make muted interludes among the trees?
I cannot tell, I only know the ending
That left me lonely with my memories.
The bells grow silent and the last note lingers,
Down the green aisles the echo dies away;
Surely I felt the touch of unseen fingers
Hearing the bells across Corio Bay.
First published in The Bulletin, 22 July 1926
