Arthur Maquarie (1874-1955 / Dubbo, New South Wales)

IF the woodland and the heath,
And the hedgerows thick with may,
And the weed-flowers underneath,
And the clambering honey-sheath,
And the mosses green and grey,

And the flecks of sun and shade
Lying light upon the grass,
And the ripple in the glade,
And the songs that float and fade,
And the joys that come and pass,

If the dog-rose choir of bees
Whirling golden in the sun,
And the sweetness of the breeze,
And the joists of mighty trees,
And the hoods of purple nun,

If this fabric of delight
Spread around to make the spring
Could but read my wish aright,
Could but aid me as it might,
Could obey me while I sing,

I should build thee such a bower
As the fairies built of old,
Walled with every fragrant flower,
And with many a mighty tower
Domed with purest morning gold.

And thy breath should draw the rose,
And thine ears be filled with sweet
Such as never poet knows,
Such as tricks him while it flows,
And eludes his bar and beat.

And thy couch should be more soft
Than the silk of Eastern days,
Than the rainbow’s flush aloft,
Than the dawning clouds that oft
Melt before us as we gaze.

There my dearest love should rest
Like a bird upon the bough,
Like a fledgeling in its nest,
Like her head upon my breast,
Like my kiss upon her brow.