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The moonlight flutters from the sky To meet her at the door, A little ghost, whose steps have passed Across the creaking floor. And rustling vines that lightly tap Against the window-pane, Throw shadows on the white-washed walls To blot them out again. The moonlight leads her as she goes Across a narrow plain, By all the old, familiar ways That know her steps again. And through the scrub it leads her on And brings her to the creek, But by the broken dam she stops And seems as she would speak. She moves her lips, but not a sound Ripples the silent air; She wrings her little hands, ah, me! The sadness of despair! While overhead the black-duck's wing Cuts like a flash upon The startled air, that scarcely shrinks Ere he afar is gone. And curlews wake, and wailing cry Cur-lew! cur-lew! cur-lew! Till all the Bush, with nameless dread Is pulsing through and through. The moonlight leads her back again And leaves her at the door, A little ghost whose steps have passed Across the creaking floor. Mary Gilmore |
