Far out, far out where the looming hills lean straightway
To the blue of the sky, and the Gap lies grey between
Where the low boughs interlace at the red road's gateway
And the supplejack twines in the tangled undergreen,
The winds sigh low to the Wannon waters' singing,
And the last late heath is a-flower, fairy-belled.
With the flick of a wren and the flash of a lory winging
Through the toss of the tea-tree blossoms at Dunkeld.
Clean is the air by the cool, green mountain passes,
Cool is the wind by the rocky scarps austere,
Where the dusty dogwoods stoop by the green morasses
And the grass-tree lifts its velvet-headed spear.
Ere ever the north wind swings in its burning marches
And the bloom of the gold September is dispelled,
Ah, well to be under the forest's ferny arches
In the time of the tea-tree blossom at Dunkeld.
Where the storms roll up from the sea-line, dark and tragic,
And the thunder heads are flushed with sunset's stain,
I wish I could drink of the south wind's crystal magic
When the far bush world is fragrant after rain.
Stars o'er the mountain swung in the velvet spaces --
Ah, for the glamor the night and morning held!
Ah, for the grace of the old familiar places
Ere the froth of the tea-tree is falling at Dunkeld!
When the winding way is a foam of misty blossom,
And the frogs' loud chorus rings from the river's turn;
Where the wide grey bush rolls down to the brown cliff's bosom,
High to the eagle's eerie, low to the fern;
Oh, fair is the light of the gold September morning,
And I wish I might walk by the ridges as of eld,
In the time o' the year when the wattle gold is turning,
And the river tea-tree blossoms at Dunkeld!
First published in The Bulletin, 18 September 1929