Walter Murdoch (1874–1970). The Oxford Book of Australasian Verse. 1918.
By Dora Wilcox148 . An Evening
T
There is no sound, no voice, no stir;
Only the croak of frogs,—the whirr
Of crickets hidden in leaf and flower.
Spring from a mass of eucalypt
Sharply against the sky,—still tipped
With one last gleam of lingering fire.
On dovelike wings Night flutters down;
Lights twinkle in the little town;
The valley lies in quiet sleep.
On all those leagues of tossing sea
That lie between my home and me,
And glimmer to the stars all night.
In thine own land the shadows fall
On grassy lawn, and garden-wall,
On shining sand, and troubled sea,—
On fields thine eyes shall never see,—
And on thy new home, strange to me,
That silent City of the Dead!
On hand and heart, on lips and eyes!
On thee eternal silence lies,
On thee is utter darkness too.
Yet we who knew and loved thee best,
Wish thee an everlasting rest,
Night came on thee so quietly.
Who work and weep, who pray and wait;
Till we and thou are one with Fate,
And on us too, the Night shall fall!