Poet, believe me, you are happiest,
Who lie for ever sleeping on this hill,
The river winding by at its smooth will,
No greater weight than grass upon your breast
Nor friend, nor foe can aggravate your rest,
Deep-bosomed in eternal peace, and still
As the wide sky, who takes her lazy fill
Of silence, immemorially blest.
I walk the razor-edge of life alone
In quest of that you found -- the perfect end
To all endeavour praise and petty blame --
Tumultuous love to the last breath out-thrown.
Oh, be to me the memory of a friend
When in proud terror I cry on God's name.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 26 July 1930
Who lie for ever sleeping on this hill,
The river winding by at its smooth will,
No greater weight than grass upon your breast
Nor friend, nor foe can aggravate your rest,
Deep-bosomed in eternal peace, and still
As the wide sky, who takes her lazy fill
Of silence, immemorially blest.
I walk the razor-edge of life alone
In quest of that you found -- the perfect end
To all endeavour praise and petty blame --
Tumultuous love to the last breath out-thrown.
Oh, be to me the memory of a friend
When in proud terror I cry on God's name.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 26 July 1930
