Rippling leagues
Of light unrolled,
The grasses run
To the sunset gold.
Run to the far earth's
Edge indeed,
Starred and sprinkled
With golden weed.
Fine spun hollow,
And height, and heap,
A shallow ocean
Knee deep, knee deep.
A feathery forest,
Fringed morass,
Oh, all the world is
Nothing but grass.
Nothing but beauty,
And what can I
But dream as the dreaming
Days go by?
Watching the golden
Pageant pass
Over the seeding
Summer grass.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 13 January 1934
