Works

The song that once I dreamed about,
The tender, touching thing,
As radiant as the rose without
The love of wind and wing
The perfect verses, to the tune
Of woodland music set,...

Oh, tell me, ye breezes that spring from the west,
Oh, tell me, ere passing away,
If Leichhardt's bold spirit has fled to its rest?
Where moulders the traveller's clay?
...

It passed like the breath of the night-wind away,
It fled like a mist at the dawn of the day;
It lasted its moment, then backward was hurled,
Another increase to the age of the world.
...