A Henry Lawson Poem

There is a lasting little flower,
That everybody knows,
Yet none has thought to think about
The little Native Rose.

The wattle and the waratah,
The world has heard of those;
But who, outside Australia, kens
The little Native Rose.

Yet first for faint, far off perfume,
That lives where memory goes;
And first of all for fadelessness,
The little Native Rose.