Melba
Born to the sun and smiling skies,
And bird-songs to the morning flung,
To joyousness that never dies
In hearts that stay for ever young
’Twas here, beneath the shining trees,
She paused to learn the magic rune
Of those unlaboured ecstasies
That keep a weary world in tune.
The grey thrush fluting by the nest,
The golden whistler trilling high
Their gifts she captured and expressed
In magic notes that may not die.
Then to the old, grey world she gave,
Exultingly, at Art’s command,
In songs that live beyond the grave,
Her message from a bright, young land.
With sheer exuberance of Art,
Won from that happy, feathered throng,
She poured our sunshine from her heart,
Translated into magic song.
And tho’, alas. the singer dies,
Who bade old continents rejoice,
Not ever from our sunlit skies
Departs the memory of her voice.
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