Dreary is the light of winter, dull the sighing of the breeze,
And streaming o'er the fallow lands slants low the falling rain,
But a subtle fragrance drifting comes beyond the drooping trees
From the Cootamundra wattle in the lane.
And it paints a vision splendid past the low clouds drifting grey,
Beyond the swollen river the paddocks bleak and cold.
Will the Bush be soon awaking in that green land far away?
Will the roadsides soon be fringed with wattle-gold?
I can see the heavy dogwood, snowy sweet with morning dew,
Hear the bronzewing crooning down the gully cool,
Where the crystal river's murmuring the old song ever new,
Where the dusky blackwood hides the dreamy pool.
Are the bracken glades still royal with the crimson waratah?
Is the clematis star-spangled with the rain?
And its oh! amid the languor of the dull, brown days that are,
To be riding down those ferny aisles again.
Are the Christmas lilies waving by the homestead garden wall,
With a red rose at the gateway and a white rose by the door?
And do the cattle wander where the lilacs used to fall
And the daffodils spread wide their golden store?
The winter day of mist fades out in streaks of yellow light,
And the distant hills are hidden with the rain;
But I've been awhile in dreamland with the scent that came to-night
From the Cootamundra wattle in the lane.
First published in The Bulletin, 15 September 1910
