And the blotted book of day once more is shut?
When the saffron stains have faded, and the swans have vanished west,
Does your heart remember Peter Nelson’s hut?
Lonely, stooped old Peter Nelson, with his “most peculiar” ways,
With the clean-cut face, and hair as white as snow!
Something lingering round the old man seemed to tell of better days,
Seemed to hint of love and laughter long ago.
Kindly silence wrapped the bushland; every warring note was still;
Soft heart-tremors stirred, and smiling eyes grew dim.
Weaving fancies went the fiddle; dreams prophetic made us thrill—