The Call of the Bushland by Stella P Bell

From the softly sighing forests,
Across the blazing desert sand,
The call of the bushland is reaching,
With eager, beckoning hands.

It is there in every movement
Of the swaying, snow-tipped trees,
In the air it's the music of the birds,
That floats on each tiny breeze.

From the sky it reaches downward,
The sound is felt much more than heard,
From those who wing on southward,
A flight of graceful birds.

It reaches out from a darkened sky,
Through the softest moonlit glow,
On a land that hushed and sleeping,
Beneath a mantle of whitest snow.

Its heart is in the heart of nature,
And her gentle, tender hands,
It pulls at the soul and being,
And it ties with loving strands.

It's the essence and the heart beat
Of each living, breathing thing,
For there's magic and there's longing
In the constant song it sings.

In the silence it's a knowledge
And its tendrils wrap the heart
With a longing to return there,
Though many miles may part.

The call is ever present,
Though it is often pushed away,
Just a sound or a scent can revive it,
And it's back again to stay.

From the bush to the busy city,
On the breeze there may be a perfume
That entwines every heart that knows it,
And fills every empty room.

It works once again its magic,
With a longing for one to be
Where this call alone has its birth place,
In the bush where life is free

Stella P. Bell