When a heavy surf is droning
In the twilight on the bar;
When our Mother Sea is crooning,
Her quaint cradle-song afar.
When the wild black swans are lining
To some still, remote lagoon;
And above the headland shining
Hangs a quiet, crescent moon;
When the panoply and splendor
Of the tropic sunset dies,
Then my Fancy turns to tender
Dreams beneath the queenly skies.
Dear loved Loadstone of my longing
Fair fond Woman of my heart
When the twilight thoughts are thronging,
Art thou dreaming too, apart?
Yea, my spirit echoes truly —
“Circling Seas shall with the tide
Pulse on either shore of Thule,
In the Dream Beatified.
“Surely as the mystic crescent
Silvers now a garden fair
Will the shining, white liquescent
Light of Love burn also there.”
So, I mourn not that the splendor
Of the dead Day lies in pall,
When the Night her brooding tender
Wings of Fantasy lets fall.
In the dusk I’m sitting, building
Tall cloud castles by the Sea;
In the dusk my Love is gilding
Castles fair for her and me.
E. J. Brady, The Earthen Floor, Grafton (N.S.W.): Grip Newspaper Co., 1902