Oh, Where Is the Poem?

OH, WHERE IS THE POEM?

Oh, where is the poem

I wanted to write?

Is it there in the day,

Will it sing in the light?

Does it rise from the dark?
Is it there in young dawn;

In the pale eastern gold

Of new day being born?

Is it there in fresh green

Of the dew-sparkled grass?

Is it flying along

Where black cockatoos pass?

With the scent and red hue,

Is it there in the rose,

That grows in the garden-

Like a ruby it glows.

Is it there in the tree

That reaches so high

That speaks with the wind

That roams the wide sky?

Is it there in the crow

With its mournful, far cry;

Is it there in the wings

Of a white butterfly?

Is it there in the black ant

That scurries along?

Is it in the clear notes

Of the magpie's grand song?

Is it there in white clouds

On the midday-blue skies

That drift in strange shapes

And dazzle my eyes?

In the town's car-loud streets,

In each busy path-place;

Is it there in the glance

From a passer-by's face?

In the afternoon rain

Is it there in the grey?

Or the rainbow that arched

With each coloured ray?

Is it there in the dusk

With the clouds' bright-red glows?

Where the sky fades to violet

And lilac and rose.

Oh, where is the poem

I wanted to write?

Is it there in the moon

Like a smile made of light?

Is it there in the darkness

That brings sleep to sight;

As far as the far stars

In the cold depths of night?

I looked and I saw

All that lives in my sight-

In the brilliance of day,

In the deeps of the night.

Oh, but where is the poem

I wanted to write?