“Not from the seas does he draw inspiration,
Not from the rivers that croon on their bars;
But a wide, a world-old desolation –
On a dead land alone with the stars.
The long hot day gone over,
And starlight come again;
And I, weary rover,
Lie camped on One Tree Plain.
My saddle for a pillow,
I lie beneath the tree,
That softens to a willow,
In the moonlight over me.
I dream that I remember
A dim and distant day,
Beyond yon misty timber,
In the Home-world far away.
More verses by Henry Lawson
- When Your Sins Come Home To Roost
- Sacred To The Memory Of “unknown”
- Brighten’s Sister-In-Law [or The Carrier's Story]
- His Brother’s Keeper
- Will Yer Write It Down For Me?