WHEN the tall bamboos are clicking to the restless little breeze,
And bats begin their jerky skimming flight,
And the creamy scented blossoms of the dark pittosporum trees,
Grow sweeter with the coming of the night.
And the harbour in the distance lies beneath a purple pall,
And nearer, at the gardens lowest fringe,
Loud the water soughs and gurgles mid the rocks below the wall,
Dark-heaving, with a dim uncanny tinge
Of a green as pale as beryls, like the strange faint-coloured flame
That burns around the Women of the Sea:
And the strip of sky to westward which the camphorlaurels frame,
Has turned to ash-of-rose and ivory
And a chorus rises valiantly from where the crickets hide,
Close-shaded by the balsams drooping down
It is evening in a garden by the kindly water-side,
A garden near the lights of Sydney town!
In A Southern Garden
written byDorothea Mackellar
© Dorothea Mackellar