Gisborne

Where tall poplars guard her gates,
   Yearning up to her sky
Here the sweet, shy maiden waits
   Praises from the passer-by
Where the hidden valleys keeps
   Safe her soft amenities,
Here the pleasant hamlet sleeps
And the little streamlet creeps
   By willow trees.

Once she heard high tales of gold;
   Fevered life flowed past her town,
And the teamsters' waggons rolled
   Where her road goes winding down
Here the hurried traffic flowed;
   Eager men passed to and fro;
Spurred by the eternal goad,
Diggers hastened on the road
   To Bendigo.

If she profited at all
   By those crowded, crazy days,
This no more would she recall
   Since she cleaves to kindlier ways,
Where her towering poplars lift
   Tall tops to the azure tent,
She asks but to dream and drift,
Choosing now the statelier gift
   Of calm content.

She asks but to drift and dream
   Amid her changing English trees
Where, to mark her winding stream,
   Willows whiten in the breeze.
And, when touched by Autumn's fires,
   Colors burn from tree to tree.
She comes near man's deep desires,
Near to all his peace requires -
   Pure harmony.