A breeze comes past me singing, and a white cloud slow is swinging,
Like a poppy that is parting from a slender hidden stem.
And September dear returning, wakes anew the old, old yearning,
As she weaves from full-blown wattle flower her lustrous diadem;
For the bloom is gleaming yonder, and it lures me on to wander.
O! my Lady of all Beauty, let a single petal fall
From the rose that you are wearing, and I'll break the world's ensnaring
And roam for aye your troubadour, and not a voiceless thrall.