There's music in my heart all day,
I hear it late and early.
It comes from fields so far away,
The wind that shakes the barley.
Above the uplands drenched with dew,
The sky hangs soft and nearly,
An emerald world is listening to
The wind that shakes the barley.
Above the bluest mountain crest
The lark is singing rarely
It rocks the singer into rest,
The wind that shakes the barley.
Oh, still through summers and through springs
It calls me late and early.
Come home, come home, come home, it sings,
The wind that shakes the barley.
--Kathleen Tynan Hinkson.
Notes
From the NSW Newspaper The Freeman's Journal 29 Jul 1909 Page 3.
Top