OGILVIE
The camp-fire gleams resistanceTo every twinkling star;The horse-bells in the distanceAre jangling faint and far;Through gum-boughs lorn and lonelyThe passing breezes sigh;In all the world are onlyMy star-crowned Love and I.The still night wraps Macquarie;The white moon, drifting slow,Takes back her silver gloryFrom watching waves below;To dalliance I give over,Though half the world may chide,And clasp my one true LoverHere on Macquarie side.The loves of earth grow oldenOr kneel at some new shrine;Her locks are always golden—This brave Bush-Love of mine;And for her star-lit beauty,And for her dawns dew-pearled,Her name in love and dutyI guard against the world.They curse her desert places!How can they understand,Who know not what her face isAnd never held her hand?—Who may have heard the meetingOf boughs the wind has stirred,Yet missed the whispered greetingOur listening hearts have heard.For some have travelled overThe long miles at her side,Yet claimed her not as LoverNor thought of her as Bride:And some have followed afterThrough sun and mist for years,Nor held the sunshine laughter,Nor guessed the raindrops tears.If we some white arms’ folding,Some warm, red mouth should miss—Her hand is ours for holding,Her lips are ours to kiss;And closer than a loverShe shares our lightest breath,And droops her great wings overTo shield us to the death.The winds of Dawn are roving,The river-oaks astir ...What heart were lorn of lovingThat had no Love but her?Till last red stars are lightedAnd last winds wander West,Her troth and mine are plighted—The Lover I love best!William Ogilvie.
The camp-fire gleams resistanceTo every twinkling star;The horse-bells in the distanceAre jangling faint and far;Through gum-boughs lorn and lonelyThe passing breezes sigh;In all the world are onlyMy star-crowned Love and I.The still night wraps Macquarie;The white moon, drifting slow,Takes back her silver gloryFrom watching waves below;To dalliance I give over,Though half the world may chide,And clasp my one true LoverHere on Macquarie side.The loves of earth grow oldenOr kneel at some new shrine;Her locks are always golden—This brave Bush-Love of mine;And for her star-lit beauty,And for her dawns dew-pearled,Her name in love and dutyI guard against the world.They curse her desert places!How can they understand,Who know not what her face isAnd never held her hand?—Who may have heard the meetingOf boughs the wind has stirred,Yet missed the whispered greetingOur listening hearts have heard.For some have travelled overThe long miles at her side,Yet claimed her not as LoverNor thought of her as Bride:And some have followed afterThrough sun and mist for years,Nor held the sunshine laughter,Nor guessed the raindrops tears.If we some white arms’ folding,Some warm, red mouth should miss—Her hand is ours for holding,Her lips are ours to kiss;And closer than a loverShe shares our lightest breath,And droops her great wings overTo shield us to the death.The winds of Dawn are roving,The river-oaks astir ...What heart were lorn of lovingThat had no Love but her?Till last red stars are lightedAnd last winds wander West,Her troth and mine are plighted—The Lover I love best!William Ogilvie.
The camp-fire gleams resistanceTo every twinkling star;The horse-bells in the distanceAre jangling faint and far;Through gum-boughs lorn and lonelyThe passing breezes sigh;In all the world are onlyMy star-crowned Love and I.
The still night wraps Macquarie;The white moon, drifting slow,Takes back her silver gloryFrom watching waves below;To dalliance I give over,Though half the world may chide,And clasp my one true LoverHere on Macquarie side.
The loves of earth grow oldenOr kneel at some new shrine;Her locks are always golden—This brave Bush-Love of mine;And for her star-lit beauty,And for her dawns dew-pearled,Her name in love and dutyI guard against the world.
They curse her desert places!How can they understand,Who know not what her face isAnd never held her hand?—Who may have heard the meetingOf boughs the wind has stirred,Yet missed the whispered greetingOur listening hearts have heard.
For some have travelled overThe long miles at her side,Yet claimed her not as LoverNor thought of her as Bride:And some have followed afterThrough sun and mist for years,Nor held the sunshine laughter,Nor guessed the raindrops tears.
If we some white arms’ folding,Some warm, red mouth should miss—Her hand is ours for holding,Her lips are ours to kiss;And closer than a loverShe shares our lightest breath,And droops her great wings overTo shield us to the death.
The winds of Dawn are roving,The river-oaks astir ...What heart were lorn of lovingThat had no Love but her?Till last red stars are lightedAnd last winds wander West,Her troth and mine are plighted—The Lover I love best!
William Ogilvie.