(By Lilian Wooster Greaves.)
There is a deer and distant grave
Mine eyes shall never see;
Where tides of far-off ocean lave
A shore unknown to me.
There scarlet poppy petals fall
In silence to the sod.
There winter lays a snowy pall
On paths I never trod.
Beside that silent, sacred spot
Mine eyes shall never weep;
But faithful memory needeth not
A foreign tryst to keep.
I mourn beside no far-off grave,
My soldier dead and dear.
The precious home he died to save His monument — is here.
The land he loved — the golden chains
Of wattle in the spring;
The miracle that August rains
To plain and forest bring.
The wild flowers like a carpet spread
Of every rainbow hue;
The gum-tree blossoms white and red
And leschenaultia's blue.
The glory when the sun shall kiss
The gold-crowned Christmas trees His great memorial is this:
That he is gone from these.