Honour and truth shall be overthrown In fierce desire; Thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stone To mount thee higher.
When the curtain falls on the sordid strife That seemed so splendid, Thou shalt look with pain on the wasted life That thou hast ended.
Thou hast sold thy life for a guerdon small In fitful flashes; There has been reward -- but the end of all Is dust and ashes.
For the night has come and it brings to naught Thy projects cherished, And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought -- 'He lived and perished.'
I wait for thee at the outer gate, My love, mine only; Wherefore tarriest thou so late While I am lonely.
Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift, In thee implanted Is the love of Art and the greatest gift That God has granted.
And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs Shall seem but small things -- Poet or painter, a singer of songs, Thine art is all things.
For the wine of life is a woman's love To keep beside thee; But the love of Art is a thing above -- A star to guide thee.
As the years go by with thy love of Art All undiminished, Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet heart -- Thy work is finished.
So the painter fashions a picture strong That fadeth never, And the singer singeth a wond'rous song That lives for ever.
The daylight is dying Away in the west, The wild birds are flying In silence to rest; In leafage and frondage Where shadows are deep, They pass to its bondage -- The kingdom of sleep. And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, Oh, wonderful night.
When night doth her glories Of starshine unfold, 'Tis then that the stories Of bush-land are told. Unnumbered I hold them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? Beyond all denials The stars in their glories The breeze in the myalls Are part of these stories. The waving of grasses, The song of the river That sings as it passes For ever and ever, The hobble-chains' rattle, The calling of birds, The lowing of cattle Must blend with the words. Without these, indeed, you Would find it ere long, As though I should read you The words of a song That lamely would linger When lacking the rune, The voice of the singer, The lilt of the tune.