(On his fourth birthday)
- I pay that you will love the things I
love,
- That ferns may greet you, wet with dew,
- When rising, Sol, his heavenly rays
shall play
- On virgin bushlands where you choose to
rove.
- I pray that golden noon may find you
resting where
- the scent of wildflowers fills the air,
- And after, mellow afternoon,
- When sunlight's shafts the grassy ridges
gild
- And bushbirds with their glorious songs
the
- mountain glens have filled
- I pray you find in nature's realm your
sacred grove,
- Your golden bough the wattle's blazoned
branch,
- Azurean skies for your cathedral's roof,
- Your priestly music, tempests in the
trees.
- For incense, gum leaves burning on the
fire
- That cooks your evening meal,
- Ere, tired, you take for bed
- The earth, your room a sylvan glade,
- The stars for canopy.
-
- Colin Smith
- "The Bushwalker" No. 8 1945
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- Commend me to those silly B's
- Who walk when they could be at ease
- And stumble through a rough bush track
- With heavy boots and aching back,
- And when their stomachs hit their backs
- They pause and ease off heavy packs,
- There's no food steaming on the table -
- They cook their own if they are able -
- Oh give me lots and lots of ease
- And nice soft beds to lay in, please.
- The hard bush track I'll never roam,
- For me the comforts of a home.
-
- Dot Smith
- c.1950
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