163 . Homesick

I’M sick of fog and yellow gloom,

Of faces strange, and alien eyes,

Your London is a vault, a tomb,

To those born ’neath Australian skies.

O land of gold and burning blue,

I’m crying like a child for you!

The trees are tossing in the park

Against the banked-up amethyst,

At four o’clock it will be dark,

And I a blind man in the mist.

Hark to old London’s smothered roar,

Gruff jailer growling at my door!

Each day I see Fate’s wheel whirl round,

And yet my fortunes are the same,

My hopes are trodden in the ground,

Good luck has never heard my name,

O friends, O home, beyond the seas,

Alone in darkness here I freeze!

The day is dead: night falls apace;

I reach my hand to draw the blind,

To hide old London’s frowning face,

And then (alas) I call to mind

The shining ways we used to roam

Those long, light evenings at home.

I hate this fog and yellow gloom,

These days of grey and amethyst;

I want to see the roses bloom,

The smiling fields by sunshine kissed—

O land of gold and burning blue!

I’m crying like a child for you!