A Poetry of Exiles By Douglas B. W. Sladen: An Australian colonist: Second edition, revised |
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PARRAMATTA OAK-WALK. |
 | A Poetry of Exiles |  |
64
PARRAMATTA OAK-WALK.
Over my head the oak branches are sighing,
Out of yon lodge I hear English speech,
Under my feet the dead oak leaves are lying,
Rustling like shingle on Sussex beach.
Out of yon lodge I hear English speech,
Under my feet the dead oak leaves are lying,
Rustling like shingle on Sussex beach.
Well could I fancy myself in old England
Were it not May and the leaves not red,
For May goes not thither till promised a spring land,
And May comes not hither till leaves are dead;
Were it not May and the leaves not red,
For May goes not thither till promised a spring land,
And May comes not hither till leaves are dead;
And over my head in the violet heaven,
Lustrous as never are English skies,
Shone not the Cross of the South for the Seven
Dear in the north to my childish eyes;
Lustrous as never are English skies,
Shone not the Cross of the South for the Seven
Dear in the north to my childish eyes;
And on the hill did the gum-trees not shiver,
Flapping their vesture of tattered bark,
Emblems of desolate indigence ever
Winter and summer, by day and dark.
Flapping their vesture of tattered bark,
Emblems of desolate indigence ever
Winter and summer, by day and dark.
72
Oaks make not England; the oak-tree is rooted
Wherever an Englishman's foot may rest,
And the speech and the customs of England are bruited
From the swart south-east to the wild north-west.
Wherever an Englishman's foot may rest,
And the speech and the customs of England are bruited
From the swart south-east to the wild north-west.
| A Poetry of Exiles | |