Wisps of Tussock

Sweetheart, sweetheart, this wreath of song for you: Wisps of mountain tussock and ferns washed in dew— Neither rich camelia nor sweet garden rose, But plain things that blossom best where God’s wind blows. Mine are the mountains, mine the yellow plain, Mine my brothers toiling with the wool and grain, Mine the dancing sunshine and the long breaker’s roll, Mine the winter, creeping from the lands of the pole, Mine the toil and laughter of the days that are no more, And mine the golden promise that the years have in store; But of all I know and love in the lands of the sea, Of all that I have sung in the isles of the free, There’s nothing half so sweet, Though the world were at my feet, As the one dear thought that YOU LOVE ME.