Herbert Hoover's Love Song
you ever dream, my sweetheart, of a twilight long ago.
a park in old Kalgoorlie, where the bougainvilleas grow,
the moonbeams on the pathways trace a shimmering brocade,
And the overhanging peppers form a lovers' promenade?
in soft cascades of cadence from a garden close at hand.
the murmurous, mellow music of a sweet, orchestral band.
have flown since then, my sweetheart, fleet as orchard blooms in May,
But the hour that fills my dreaming, was it only yesterday?
we two a space in silence, while the summer sun slipped down,
the grey dove dusk, with drooping pinions, wrapped the mining town,
you raised your tender glances darkly, dreamily to mine,
And my pulses clashed like cymbals in a rhapsody divine.
the pent-up fires of longing loosed their prison's weak control,
in wild, hot words came rushing from my burning soul.
hot words that spoke of passion, hitherto but half expressed,
And I clasped you close, my sweetheart, kissed you, strained you to my breast.
the starlight-spangled heavens rolled around us where we stood,
a tide of bliss kept surging through the current of our blood.
I spent my soul in kisses, crushed upon your scarlet mouth,
Oh! My red-lipped, sunbrowned sweetheart, dark-eyed daughter of the south.
was well that fate should part us, it was well my path should lead.
to slopes of high endeavour, aye, and was it well, indeed.
have wed some southern squatter, learned long since his every whim,
Soothed his sorrows, borne his troubles, sung your sweetest songs for him.
have fought my fight and triumphed, on the map I've writ my name,
I prize one hour of loving, more than fifty years of fame.
was but a summer madness that possessed us, men will hold,
the yellow moon bewitched me with its wizardry of gold.
them say it, dear, but oft-times in the dusk I close my eyes
in dreams drift back to where the stars rain splendour from the skies,
a park in far Kalgoorlie, where the golden wattles grow,
Where you kissed me in the twilight of a summer long ago.
I clasp you close, my sweetheart, while each throbbing pulse is
By a low and mournful music that shall never more be stilled.