But always I would wish to be where the seasons gently fall
On the Further Isle of the Outer Sea, the last little isle of all,
A fair green land of hill and plain, of rivers and water-springs,
Where the sun still follows after the rain, and ever the hours have wings,
With its bosomed valleys where men may find retreat from
the rough world's way . . .
Where the sea-wind kisses the mountain-wind between the dark and the day.
The combers swing from the China Sea to the California Coast,
The North Atlantic takes toll and fee of the best of the Old World's boast,
And the waves run high with the tearing crash that the Cape-bound
steamers fear --
But they're not so free as the waves that lash the rocks by Sumner pier,
And wheresoever my body be, my heart remembers still
The purple shadows upon the sea, low down from Sumner hill.
The warm winds blow through Kuringai; the cool winds from the South
Drive little clouds across the sky by Sydney harbour-mouth;
But Sydney Heads feel no such breeze as comes from nor'-west rain
And takes the pines and the blue-gum trees by hill and gorge and plain,
And whistles down from Porter's Pass, over the fields of wheat,
And brings a breath of tussock grass into a Christchurch street.
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