But my honeymooners leave me, and I watch them passing through—
They are homesick for the freshness of the open spaces, too—
So they gather up their bundles, and they wander home again
Back to where the morning magpies lather out the old refrain,
Back to love in fullest measure, pressed and flowing overtop,
Through the green months and the brown months, in the house behind the crop.
From the overcrowded city, from the bustle and the push
Pass my sturdy, happy couples who are sticking to the bush.
MAKING HOME
No, you don’t quite get the meaning when the fun is at its height