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Henry Lawson - The Sliprails and the Spur
Work rating: Low

The colours of the setting sun 
 Withdrew across the Western land — 
He raised the sliprails, one by one, 
 And shot them home with trembling hand; 
Her brown hands clung — her face grew pale — 
 Ah! quivering chin and eyes that brim! — 
One quick, fierce kiss across the rail, 
 And, `Good-bye, Mary!`  `Good-bye, Jim!` 
          Oh, he rides hard to race the pain 
           Who rides from love, who rides from home; 
          But he rides slowly home again, 
           Whose heart has learnt to love and roam. 
 
A hand upon the horse`s mane, 
 And one foot in the stirrup set, 
And, stooping back to kiss again, 
 With `Good-bye, Mary! don`t you fret! 
When I come back` — he laughed for her — 
 `We do not know how soon `twill be; 
I`ll whistle as I round the spur — 
 You let the sliprails down for me.` 
 
She gasped for sudden loss of hope, 
 As, with a backward wave to her, 
He cantered down the grassy slope 
 And swiftly round the dark`ning spur. 
Black-pencilled panels standing high, 
 And darkness fading into stars, 
And blurring fast against the sky, 
 A faint white form beside the bars. 
 
And often at the set of sun, 
 In winter bleak and summer brown, 
She`d steal across the little run, 
 And shyly let the sliprails down. 
And listen there when darkness shut 
 The nearer spur in silence deep; 
And when they called her from the hut 
 Steal home and cry herself to sleep. 
 
     .    .    .    .    . 
 
{Some editions have four more lines here.} 
          And he rides hard to dull the pain 
           Who rides from one that loves him best; 
          And he rides slowly back again, 
           Whose restless heart must rove for rest.
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