Mary Hannay Foott (1846 - 1918 / Australia)

A fringe of rushes, one green line
Upon a faded plain;
A silver streak of water-shine,
Above, tree-watchers twain.
It was our resting-place awhile,
And still, with backward gaze,
We say: “'Tis many a weary mile,
But there were happy days.”

And shall no ripple break the sand
Upon our farther way?
Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand?
Or leafy tree-tops sway?
The gold of dawn is surely met
In sunset's lavish blaze;
And, in horizons hidden yet,
There shall be happy days.