Classic Poem

I greet them in the twilight hush,
When falls the early dew,
The patient women of the bush,
The saints that once I knew.

There is no need of form or state,
To cross my humble floor,
For all are welcome, soon or late,
Who come by memory's door.

At night they come to me in sleep,
And bring me in my dreams,
Sweet wilding things from ranges steep,
And blooms from bushland streams;

And take me with them o'er the run.
Again in reckless ride,
To see the glorious setting sun
From off the ridges' side.

Ah how I bless the pioneers,
The women lost to fame,
Who braved the bush for strenuous years,
To make Australia's name.