An Old Bush Road

The dear old road, wheel-worn and broken,

Winding through the forest green,

Barred with shadows and with sunshine,

Misty vistas are drawn between.

Grim, scarred bluegums ranged austerely,

Lifting blackened columns each

To the large, fair fields of azure,

Stretching ever out of reach.

See the hardy bracken growing

Round the fallen limbs of trees;

And the sharp reeds from the marshes,

Washed across the flooded leas;

And the olive rushes, leaning

All their pointed spears to cast

Slender shadows on the roadway,

While the faint, slow wind creeps past.

Ancient ruts grown round with grasses,

Soft old hollows filled with rain;

Rough, gnarled roots all twisting queerly,

Dark with many a weather-stain.

Lichens moist upon the fences,

Twiners close against the logs;

Yellow fungus in the thickets,

Vivid mosses in the bogs.

The dear old road, wheel-worn and broken,

What delights in thee I find!

Subtle charm and tender fancy,

Like a fragrance in the mind.

Thy old ways have set me dreaming,

And out-lived illusions rise,

And the soft leaves of the landscape

Open on my thoughtful eyes.

See the clump of wattles, standing

Dead and sapless on the rise;

When their boughs were full of beauty

Even to uncaring eyes

I was ever first to rifle

The soft branches of their store.

O the golden wealth of blossom

I shall gather there no more

Now we reach the dun morasses,

Where the red moss used to grow

Ruby-bright upon the water,

Floating on the weeds below.

Once the swan and wild-fowl glided

By those sedges, green and tall;

Here the booming bitterns nested;

Here we heard the curlews call

Climb this hill and we have rambled

To the last turn of the way;

Here is where the bell-birds tinkled

Fairy chimes for me all day.

These were bells that never wearied,

Swung by ringers on the wing;

List! the elfin strains are waking,

Memory sets the bells a-ring!

The dear old road, no wonder, surely,

That I love thee like a friend!

And I grieve to think how surely

All thy loveliness will end.

For thy simple charm is passing,

And the turmoil of the street

Soon will mar thy sylvan silence

With the tramp of careless feet.

And for this, I look more fondly

On the sunny landscape, seen

From the road, wheel-worn and broken,

Winding through the forest green.

Something still remains of Nature,

Thoughts of other days to bring

For the staunch old trees are standing,

And I hear the wild birds sing!

Original author - Jennings Carmichael