Arthur Patchett Martin

Bushland

Not sweeter to the storm-tossed mariner
 Is glimpse of home, where wife and children wait
 To welcome him with kisses at the gate,
Than to the town-worn man the breezy stir
 Of mountain winds on rugged pathless heights:
 His long-pent soul drinks in the deep delights
That Nature hath in store. The sun-kissed bay
 Gleams thro' the grand old gnarled gum-tree boughs
Like burnished brass; the strong-winged bird of prey
Sweeps by, upon his lonely vengeful way —
 While over all, like breath of holy vows,
 The sweet airs blow, and the high-vaulted sky
Looks down in pity this fair Summer day
 On all poor earth-born creatures doomed to die.