July 2014 Archives

Winter by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on July 31, 2014 7:21 AM | No TrackBacks
Last night I saw a spirit move adown
The shadow-broidered path; and all her gown
Was dappled frost, and laughter lit her eyes. 
Her little hands were pale as moths that rise  
Upon the rosy mists; and in her dress
Was wrought in snow a promised loveliness.

She smiled-the daffodils and snowdrops came;
She called-the lily answered to her name. 
And like a cloud of scented holiness,
That fed upon the chaste air's lowliness,
The twinkling feathers of the first snow fell, 
The wind rose muffled like a velvet bell.

Earth drew her emerald garments close and slept.
Each little insect to its shelter crept.
The blue lake glistened into shining ice,  
And round this pool the wild owl hooted thrice.
For Winter whispered thro' the cool, wide night,
And bird and beast quick vanished from her sight.  

First published in The Australasian, 31 July 1915

Almond Blossom by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on July 30, 2014 7:37 AM | No TrackBacks
The almonds are out
   In the orchard again,
A fluttering rout
   In the wake of the rain.

A delicate froth
   On the wash of the wind, 
Defying the wrath
   Of a season unkind.

A fairy-land lattice
   Against the low sky; 
A miracle that is
   The crown of July. 

All blowing about,
   So that someone may say 
The almonds are out
   In the orchard to-day.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 30 July 1938

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

Your Road by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on July 29, 2014 7:21 AM | No TrackBacks
Make no mistake, for the road goes up, 
The road goes up, aye, the road goes up;
   Not the desperate plunge o'er the canyon's edge,   
   Nor the poppied sleep 'neath the briary hedge,  
While the lingers slip on the poison cup. 

No byways, feathery with grass and fern, 
No sweeping river, no sheltered burn;
   But the wide white, road, in the dust and glare,  
   With the pitiless sunlight everywhere,  
No butterfly on a rose to sup,
But a wingless progress--slowly up.

Make no mistake, for your road goes up,
Your road goes up, aye; your road goes up;
   For others the dream in the poppied field, 
   For others the green boughs' tender shield,
There is only toil in your loving cup.

You wonder sometimes, when eves are grey, 
And the lids come down o'er the eyes of day,
Why the bowers of love are decked for some,
While your feet keep time to a distant drum 
Past the warm inn door, where the merry sup
And bid you pause as you stumble up.

But make no mistake, for your road goes up, 
Your road goes up, aye, your road goes up;
   No slipping to rest o'er the grassy edge, 
   Nor hidden nest in the budding hedge, 
With your happy cheek on a violet cup.  

There are mountains rising above the vale;
There's a helpful staff for the feet that fail,
   There's a great while star in the purple night    
   That is only seen from a mountain height. 
There's a board where gods, at the last, may sup                
At the end of the road that journeys up!  

First published in The Australasian, 29 July 1916

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Through the Rain by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on July 28, 2014 7:30 AM | No TrackBacks
The quiet rains drifts over,
   As grey as spreaders' strands,
Weaving a web that covers
   The emerald pasture-lands.

Behind it dream the fallows,
   The little lakes and rills,
And fields with tumbled hay-stacks
   That flank the rounded hills.

The quiet rain drifts over
   And shrouds my heart with grey --
But 'neath it lovely reaches
   Of joy are hid away!

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 28 July 1925

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Brick Red Azaleas by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on July 27, 2014 9:50 AM | No TrackBacks
Red as old walls that hide dim gardens, where
The mists seem tethered on the morning air, 
And the hot gold of autumn sunshine burns 
In tempered glory down grey ivied urns,
And slips to blunt among the grassy caves 
The noontide sharpness of its glittering glaives.          

Red as the slender shoes a dark coquette 
Fits to her long, arched foot, a brilliant set                      
Below the silken instep's veiled rose,  
A some lit lantern in the twilight glows, 
You flicker thro' my fancy's secret bowers, 
Like jewelled hands above ungathered flowers!  

First published in The Australasian, 27 July 1918

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Winter Eves by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on July 26, 2014 8:29 AM | No TrackBacks
Who does not love on Winter eves to walk
   By leafy path and cool secluded way,
Where not one loiterer remains to talk
   Nor lyre-bird stays to play
With noisy murmur, when the leaf and stalk,
   Each in communion grey,
Tap no regretful legend to the past,
   Sing no distressful lay, nor shadow cast,
Nor sighing make for Autumn flown so fast?

I do. I love the silence of the hills,
   And the deep peace made browner by repose,
And the seed rustling underfoot that thrills
   My blood until it glows
With mellow memories that haunt the rills
   Running where Childhood blows
Her bubbles of reflection, still as cool
   As when we blew then with her after school,
With reeds for pipes, beside the swimming-pool.

Who does not love on Winter eves to walk
   Down gullies steep and valleys full of rest,
Where neither man nor Nature seems to balk
   The ease within the breast
While the oak flowers like powdered golden chalk
   Scatter for earth's old nest?
Who does not love these pleasures to command
   When the trees sleep like brothers hand-in-hand,
He has not known my love nor my dear land.

First published in The Sydney Mail, 26 July 1922

Hidden Valley by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on July 25, 2014 7:26 AM | No TrackBacks
Grey, grumbling carts go down the hidden valley,
   Lop-sided 'neath their loads of piled-up boughs.
Along the slope the sheep, slow-moving, rally
   From hollows where the winds of autumn drowse.
And down the road thick-barred with inky shadow,
   Trail home the quiet cows.

Tall fences lean above the straw and rubble,
   Dim farmhouse-roofs float airily in dream.
Beyond the blunted spears of shining stubble
   The ploughman walks behind his straining team.
Against the grass, against the purple furrows,
   The blades like silver gleam.

Blue smoke hangs where the sunlight dapples,
   Old orchards grey with gaunt and leafless trees.
The piercing scent of green, late-garnered apples
   Comes waveringly with every earthy breeze
There is no sound in all the hidden valley,
   But the loud hum of bees.

But the loud hum of bees uprising, falling
   In places filled with secret yellow comb,
And clear and wild the song of magpies calling
  From windy gums that toss a blossomed foam.
Here in the hidden valley peace has fashioned
   Its own abiding home!  

First published in The Australasian, 25 July 1936

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

To Editha by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on July 24, 2014 7:32 AM | No TrackBacks
Editha! out by the sandy bar, 
   Out by the shining line of beach, 
Somewhere away in the south you are, 
   Mermaid and seashore, each to each.

Out on the rocks where the seashell lies 
   Editha dreams in the noonday rest, 
Where waves dance blue as a woman's eyes, 
   And foam lies white as a woman's breast. 

To his ears her voice, as a syren song,   
    Perhaps rings to-day in the sea-girt south; 
Perhaps he already has waited long 
   For an answering smile from her rose-leaf month. 

But the songs I heard in the past are here, 
   As tenderly true or as gaily bright; 
And I find the voice of my dreams as dear, 
   Though I hear it but in my heart to-night.

First published in The Queenslander, 24 July 1897

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Spring by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on July 23, 2014 7:29 AM | No TrackBacks
Since I must die, let not a knell be mine
   Quietly tolled in autumn, when leaves fall 
Lighter as love for the swift summer's pall;
Nor yet in winter, when the bare, cold vine 
Of my wistaria no more may twine
   With its green arms the sunny garden wall,  
   But sleeps, forgetful of life's happy call, 
Like an old poet dreaming of good wine. 

No! let dear spring, when delicately dight
   In rose and white her birds throng every tree,  
Shake out the perfumed banner of her hair 
With blossoms thick upon my shadowy sight,
   Till, blind with beauty, deaf with melody, 
   I pass amid her clamour with no care.

First published in The Australasian, 23 July 1921

Sunday Bells by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on July 22, 2014 7:19 AM | No TrackBacks
Dew on the grassy uplands stretching forward,
   Bloom of the grape on brown hills far away, 
And blown above the blue waves sparkling shoreward, 
   The Sunday bells across Corio Bay.

All in the golden quiet of the morning 
   Knee-deep in wildflower weed and feathery grass, 
Only the sapling's crown my roof adorning, 
   I hear the airy echoes pause and pass. 

Down the low wind the silver clamor surges, 
   Swells to its full, and faintly ebbs away, 
One with the infinite fields of azure merges 
   The sound of bells across Corio Bay. 

Phantasies old of other years awaking 
   Fragments of lost delight and morning prime; 
Strung on a strand of silver numbers shaking
   All the warm airs of drowsy summer time. 

There was a year we used to walk together 
   Through the tall grasses by a ferny brae, 
Hearing adown the fairy golden weather    
   The Sunday bells across Corio Bay.

I wonder if your happy ghost goes straying 
   Over the headlands to the grassy hill? 
The sleepy things the sighing pines are saying 
   To the soft waters, are you hearing still 

Where harps AEolian with the waters blending 
   Make muted interludes among the trees? 
I cannot tell, I only know the ending 
   That left me lonely with my memories.
 
The bells grow silent and the last note lingers, 
   Down the green aisles the echo dies away; 
Surely I felt the touch of unseen fingers 
   Hearing the bells across Corio Bay.

First published in The Bulletin, 22 July 1926

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

Lute Strings by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on July 21, 2014 7:24 AM | No TrackBacks
He played his lute at drowsy noon
   In the shadows of the towers;
Some cried he brought the lilt of birds
   And wind among the flowers;
And every gaffer swore that he
Had strung the lute with witchery!

The children heard no note of grief
   They danced upon the cobbled way
And laughed the strings were woven by
   Bright fairies making holiday --
But old folk, heeding close and long,
Thought there was weeping in the song.

One vowed the strings a woman's hair
   Of unforgotten gold;
One whispered of a wer-wolf's thews
   Torn from the churchyard mould:
But one pale maid, who stood apart,
Knew them drawn from her breaking heart.

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 21 July 1925

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Barbara Jane by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on July 20, 2014 9:18 AM | No TrackBacks
When I walked through the paddocks
   With cuddly Barbara Jane, 
She said she saw a robin,
   All wet with shining rain, 
That sat upon a thistle,
   And talked to her quite plain.

When I walked through the paddocks 
   With laughing Barbara Jane, 
She looked at me all scarey,
   And said she saw quite plain 
A snake among the grasses,
   Beside the gurgling drain.

When I walked through the paddocks
   And romped with Barbara Jane, 
She showed me tumbled tussocks,
   Where a fairy queen bad lain.
"Her wings were shut," she whispered,
   "But I saw her face quite plain."

As I walked through the paddocks 
   With dancing Barbara Jane, 
I wondered was she fibbing,
   But dared not ask again;
For queer things sometimes happen
   That no one can explain!

First published in The Australasian, 20 July 1929

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Old-Time Flowers by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on July 19, 2014 8:20 AM | No TrackBacks
Make me a garden of old-fashioned flowers --
Sweet William, wallflower, pink, and mignonette 
With here and there a purple violet
And four o'clocks that tell the tea-time hours.
 
Border it all with bachelors' buttons bold, 
Set red geranium that needs no weeding,
Leave a tiny corner for love-lies-bleeding
And a few daffodils, yellow as gold.  

Sow blue forget-me-nots and pale sweet peas, 
Nasturtium, candytuft, and Canterbury bell. 
And to remind me lest I love too well,
Prithee! Do not forget to plant heartsease.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 19 July 1938

Beyond the Oil Refineries by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on July 18, 2014 7:20 AM | No TrackBacks
Thistles, dry thistles, down Altona way,
A network of needles, a city of swords;
The silver and purple that summer accords,
And autumn enhances, has vanished away;
Atrophied armies still armed to the teeth,
Alerted and dangerous even in death.

Stone fences run, and stumble and fall
Spreadeagled under a scrabble of weeds.
Here where a hoof-hollowed cattle-track leads,
Skirting a ruin where once was a wall,
A twangling sea-wind ascends and suspires,
Plucking laments from the telegraph wires.

Towers, round towers, of industry rise
Up from the edge of the water and seem
Like to some curious Martian dream:
Mushrooming columns set minaret-wise,
Catwalk and pipeline and balconied steel,
Concrete and solid -- and somehow unreal.

Flickers of steam must have frightened the birds
Kestrel and gull (that have looked upon
So many a mounting Babylon)
But, out of the low cloud that lurches towards 
The west, already the larks are at
Spring choir-practice across the flat.

For soon, in the shelter of daggers and dirks,
The larks will be nesting, as ever they did
Before Egypt had thought of a pyramid,
Showering the waste land at back of the Works
With sweet unchangeable songs of joy
Even as once beyond windy Troy.

First published in The Bulletin, 18 July 1956

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

The Top of a Hill by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on July 17, 2014 7:30 AM | No TrackBacks
If we could find the top of a hill
   From which, miles off one sees the sea, 
A bald-topped mountain, very still,  
   The bushes girded to its knee;
And yet, clean, blue, and everywhere 
The sunny miles of smokeless air! 

If we could find a path that went
   Between the bushes on the grade,
Hot grasses whispering their content 
   With only drifting cloud for shade;
Where one pale gleam on distant downs 
Remained the only hint of towns.

If we could find an April day
   The birds had roused from starry sleep, 
A flight of butterflies that sway
   Like wind-blown petals up the steep -- 
Alone ... with only hills and sky,
We might touch God as he went by!

First published in The Australasian, 17 July 1920

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

An Apology by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on July 16, 2014 7:55 AM | No TrackBacks
Dear, if I did not have these precious things
Gold-misted dreams and white imaginings --
My heart had never known the need of wings.

I should be touched with peace, content to stay,
Living my little life from day to day,
With feet not questing for the far-away.

But I should never feel my heart beat fast 
To see white-billowing clouds go sailing past
A robin's breast, a rose, a leaning mast.

I should not weep with foolish joy, and thrill
To watch the dark pines crown the lonely hill,
The wintry trees stand ashen-pale and still.

I should not fill that hidden heart of me
With people as I picture them to be,
And weep when these are vanished, secretly.

Dear, this is I - a mass of futile things,
Of golden dreams and white imaginings,     
Yet I would lose all else, and keep my wings!

First published in The Australasian, 16 July 1927

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

A Death Knell by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on July 15, 2014 7:22 AM | No TrackBacks
Good-bye! Good-bye! the soft winds sigh,
   When the rosy sun sinks low.
Good-bye! Good-bye! moans the roaring sea
   As it tosses the foam from its brow.
      So mortals sigh, so mortals moan,
         Yet ever say Good-bye,
         Yet ever say Good-bye.

Good-bye! Good-bye! the friends dear part,
   And meet no more in court.
Good-bye! Good-bye! thou dear old realm,
   Where paper battle are fought.
      And mortals pass and mortals pass,
         O, ever say Good-bye,
         O, ever say Good-bye.

That sweet, sad word, that echoing knell,
   Of my poor weary heart,
With tones so like a muffled toll,
   "We part! We part! We part!"
      So "aged" says, so "aged" says,
         And ever moans Good-bye,
         And ever moans Good-bye.

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 15 July 1908

The Fairy Ring by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on July 14, 2014 7:45 AM | No TrackBacks
      "Oh to find a fairy ring!"
      That is what I loved to sing! 

Here up on the broken ground,
   Past the pine-wood's purple gaps, 
Whitening all the grass around,
   Peep the pearly mushroom-caps! 

Twenty-seven pink and sweet,  
   In a ring you couldn't miss, 
Round about my careful feet!  
   I have come for this, for this! 

Who was dancing in the night,
   Where the boles black-shrouded stood? 
Who tripped out from dark to light, 
   Winding from the murky wood?

      ("Let me find a fairy ring!" 
      I had always loved to sing!) 

In this magic ring at last,
   Surely I shall, waiting, see  
Wonders from a childhood past, 
   Dancing, dancing out to me! 

Magpies chortle from the hill!
   Downward bent is every blade! 
But the golden air is still,
   And my heart beats sore afraid!

Magic is no longer here!
   All the tripping feet are gone! 
There is naught of faery near--
   I have lost it striding on!    

      Never, never more I'll sing,   
      "Oh to find a fairy ring!"

First published in The Australasian, 14 July 1923

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Flower Seeds to Sow Now! by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on July 13, 2014 9:10 AM | No TrackBacks
Flower seeds to sow now! Cineraria?
Launch the tiny vessels holding freight so fair,
Butterfly delphiniums in their capes of blue,   
Marigold-dissenters of an orange hue!
Stocks of Old Virginia, mauve and pink and white,
Making sweet a garden old by day and night;   
Such a grey old garden terraced to the sea,
With the land wind bringing many a lucky bee;
Fussing its gold pit, staking out a claim; 
Viola and pansy, gillyflower of flame!
Sun among the larkspurs, vain and ruffling things,
Slim, usurping pages in the cloaks of kings!
Cornflowers, shy plebeians coming up to town,
From the country meadows, in a Sunday gown!
Oriental poppies, wonderfully dressed,
As a languid beauty by a king caressed.
Heavy with some secret no one ever tells, 
Swing to silent music Canterbury bells;     
While among the grasses, tasselled and unshorn,
Of the Wind and Sunshine, many a rhyme is born!    

Far off sails like silver on the silver seas,
One brown island rising to a crest of trees; 
Or the hunchbacked wavelets, sighing up the sand,
Passion for the roses, married to the land!   

Do I own a garden lying by the sea?
Do I dream a garden grown by witchery?   
No, my sleeping beauty, into life you're kist
Only by magic of the seedsman's list!

First published in The Australasian, 13 July 1918

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Mile-Stones by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on July 12, 2014 8:33 AM | No TrackBacks
Just a cradled babe asleep
Where the vine-tree shade is deep,
And the larkspurs vigil keep.

Eyes of blue and tangled locks --
Just a child in muddy socks
With a bunch of "four o'clocks."

Just a schoolboy and his mate
Coming through the garden gate
When the afternoon grew late.

Just a lad who went away,
Courage high and heart so gay,
On a long-lost Summer day.

Nothing further, only these
Ragged ends of memories.

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 12 July 1927

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

The Letter by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on July 11, 2014 7:45 AM | No TrackBacks
A victory! We hear across the seas
How they press on, our brave Australian boys,
Pitted against the reivers of the world.
Pitted against the flower of the Huns,
These lads, yet green in battle, make a name
To stand forth in the ranks of Caesar's Guard
And grim battalions of old conquerors!
Did they not right nobly on the Somme?
At Pozieres they lifted high their flag --
Bapaume and Vimy! Off-shoots of the tough
Old British Stock. This mother shears her son
Has gained his D.S.O., and this a bar,
And that a special mention. I the while,
Who am no mother -- and for ever maid --
Have this much to my hand of victory --
My last unopened letter to my love. 

The little silly words I cooed to him,
Through the cold medium of a pen and ink,
Small chronicles of that calm life he knew,
A snapshot of myself in my new gown,
My hand upon the head of his pet dog,
Showing the ring he gave me. I can trace
The merry words I wrote when life was fair,
With budding promise -- for my dear yet lived.
"when you come back" -- I wrote, and then I paused
To let him fill the blank, perhaps with whiff
Of orange blossom blowing down the years,
And the soft rustle of a wedding gown.

The newsboys shriek of "Victory" in the street;
The quick trams grate towards Victoria bridge;
A girl is poring o'er a pencilled page
Thumb-marked with Flanders mud, scrawled from a trench;
But I have only my own letter back,
And stamped upon the flap the word "Deceased."

First published in The Sydney Mail, 11 July 1917

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

A Wanderer's Song by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on July 10, 2014 7:39 AM | No TrackBacks
For me, the open wastes of sky, 
   Far from the surging street!
A wild, fast wind that trumpets by,  
   And grass beneath my feet!
Mine are the misty roads that break  
   The distant, phantom blue,        
And mine the first-glad steps that shake
   From jewelled turf, the dew!  

O singing wind from sunset cones,   
   What hast thou whispered me?
What secrets breathed into my bones? 
   What have I seen with thee?
The first frail clematis that wreathes
   The amethystine woods,    
The first pale harbinger that breathes,  
   The curling orchid-buds!  

The bronzed beetle have I found,
   The rich leaf-mould beneath,   
The sunburnt bracken raindrop browned, 
   The earliest spikes of heath!  
The first brave flash of robin's wings --
   Have heard the cuckoos' notes
Thrill plaintive through the twitterings
   Of pulsing, feathered throats! 

For me the waning afternoon,
   The stormy sunset sky,
The tired winds that trailing croon 
   A mother's lullaby;  
And mine the peace of tracks that twine,
   And vanish down the hill,
Where through the rustling dark there shine,
   Upon the evening still,

The little lights in windows set,
   The lights of little homes;
And on the hearth the flames that fret, 
   And mock the heart that roams.   
For me the road that fancy rides,
   The feet that may not rest;
The far blue hill that always hides
   For wanderers -- the best!

First published in The Australasian, 10 July 1920

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

The Forest Thing by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on July 9, 2014 7:45 AM | No TrackBacks
I was a thing of the forest time,
   And you were a thing of the sea;
And out of the flood you tried to climb --
Out of the weed and sand and slime,
   And there shingled beach, to me.

I was a thing of leaf and bud,
   And the sap in the thrilling bole;
And you were an eyeless spawn of mud,
Bubble-breather and brine for blood,
   And a blind, impotent soul.

I swung on a branch on a clear, blue sky,
   You rolled in a seaweed snare;
I flirted a squib at a butterfly,
Mocked the wind as it rustled by,
   And drank of the sun-sweet air.

You sighed in the dark on your pouchy floor,
   You sobbed on the shell's sharp rim.
And every ebb from the light-steeped shore,
Would fling you back with a spiteful roar,
   To your caverns green and dim.

I drew my life from the grass and mould,
   Where the oak and bracken grew;
And you were but drift where the breakers rolled --
Now your hair is pale as the seaweed's fold,
   And your eyes still keep the blue.

My hair is ruddy as good red earth,
   And my eyes are warm and dark,
As the bracken cowl ere the frond has birth,
And the bee and the moth have weighed its worth,
   Or the musky cedar's bark.

Then keep to your tide. O wooer mine!
   While I cling to my natal tree,
For your lips have a tang of the cold, cold brine,
And my blood is red as the earth's red wine,
   And I cannot bide the sea!

First published in The Bulletin, 9 July 1914

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Sonnet by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on July 8, 2014 7:25 AM | No TrackBacks
I want so little. Day by shining day
I dream of a retreat, cool, still, and green,
Where I may walk alone, unknown, unseen, 
Save by such stars as haunt that quiet way.
There may the soft creek watercresses sway,
And little fluffy yellow reed flowers lean
Over the waters, where, in peace serene,
The moon looks down as white as milky may.

Give me that haunt of peace, that secret place,
And I shall ring my happy little song,
Tender, sincere, alone and all apart
Till love flames up in every human face;
And souls, grief-weary, shall be made hope-strong,
Saying, "Somewhere a bird sings. Oh, take heart!"

First published in The Sydney Mail, 8 July 1925

 

Sad Hour by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on July 7, 2014 7:26 AM | No TrackBacks
My mind is like an empty sea, 
   As pale as ash, bereft of foam,
When every gull has winged away,
   And every ship has laboured home. 

O surging tides of hope, sweep in! 
   Rise up, rise up, O singing wind,
And blow some shining shape across
   The wan grey reaches of my mind.

First published in The Australasian, 7 July 1934

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Holy Ground by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on July 6, 2014 9:34 AM | No TrackBacks
There is a way, in the mist-veiled summer valleys,
   Where the voice of the trees intones a muted psalm,
Where the tired torrent takes breath awhile and dallies 
   In a haven of leafy calm.

Where the sky is a roof of cloudy opal over
   The columned hills, and the air is sharp as wine,  
And the coral fern and the crimson bramble cover
   The bird-pool under the pine.

Little disturbs the peace there, and there by inches
   The noonday sunlight follows the winding path,
Till all the way is sunlight, and the finches
   Scatter their silver bath.

Where the moulding log retrieves her green with mosses,
   And the mountain myrtle leans up to bluer air,
And the wavering spray in a drifting rainbow crosses 
   The rifts of maiden-hair.

And memory weaves a charm about the bracken,
   For its earth made holy with sweetness overpast,
With the sanctity of our first kiss shyly taken,
   And the sadness of our last.

First published in The Australasian, 6 July 1929

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

I Can Begin Again by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on July 5, 2014 7:56 AM | No TrackBacks
I can begin again. Does not the night
After its weariness know day once more?
I can unlock another little door
And find new ways, new worlds for my delight.
There is a path I only know by sight.
Things I had never thought were here before
I can discover in a brighter flight.

Why, being feminine, should I declare
All things are finished? I have loved and lost.
I can begin again -- Joy's cymbals beat.
Earth is radiant, still rich and fair.
Heart, when the wine is spilled, why count the cost?
Sips of eternity make death taste sweet.

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 5 July 1927

Three Rosebuds by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on July 4, 2014 7:51 AM | No TrackBacks
Three rosebuds did I bring thee, that thou my heart shouldst know,
And one was faith of childhood -- that shattered shall not grow,
Scented with breath of angels, and white as sifted snow,
Three rosebuds did I bring thee, that thou my heart shouldst know.

Three rosebuds did I bring thee, and one was like the morn,
Pink-flushed with tender fancies of gold days yet unborn,
And this was honest friendship, that can be bravely worn --
The butt for no man's laughter, and for no woman's scorn --
Three rosebuds did I bring thee, and one was fair as morn.

Three rosebuds did I bring thee ... for three thou wouldst have had;
The third is red with passion ... sun-kissed ... and sweet ... and sad ...
The first will stir remembrance ... the second make thee glad ...
The last ... is not for thee, nor me ... the rose we might have had.

First published in The Australasian, 4 July 1908 

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

OEnone by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on July 3, 2014 7:47 AM | No TrackBacks
There was no time upon the flowery slopes
   Of Ida that OEnone did not love!
Her hand in his, she walked with Paris there,
   Singing her joy unto the gods above:
Bare-footed, she and the young shepherd boy,
Tending their flocks with ne'er a thought of Troy!

And still she loved when he was gone away
   Unto the kingly courts, the king's own son -  
Dreamed on the starry meadows they had walked -
   Dreamed on his tender kisses, one by one. 
Still singing: "Love is deeper love for pain.
My shepherd boy will tread these groves again!"

She sat with all her hunger in her eyes,
   And watched across the blue AEgean Sea, 
Musing on faith, and purple, and fine gold,
   And Helen's arms and Helen's witchery. 
And still she sang: "Though he is charmed awhile,
Back will he come to pale OEnone's smile!" 

She heard the shepherds talk upon the hills;
   Of Sparta's king they talked, of Helen's name --
Of two who tarried in old Priam's halls,
   Dishonoured; and her heart leaped up with shame.
Beneath their babbling tongues her love lay dead,
Wounded to death by what the gossips said!

First published in The Australasian, 3 July 1926

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Iceland Poppies by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on July 2, 2014 7:20 AM | No TrackBacks
A little wind goes hunting through the garden close to-day
He has caught the last forgotten rose and flung it far away --
But the golden poppy-ladies, they are gay.

They toss their herds and hold him but a light and careless rover
Who has cross the ferny ridges and the fields of faded clover
And has hastened back to tell them Autumn's over.

When the clouded sky's the color of a grey goose-feather
Like scraps of scattered sunshine in all the sullen weather,
the sprightly poppy-ladies dance together,

Each silken skirt a-flutter like a captured butterfly.
From the elbow of an apple-gum a magpie warbles high --
And the old earth still has beauty in July.

First published in The Australian Women's Mirror, 2 July 1929

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

Evening by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on July 1, 2014 7:35 AM | No TrackBacks
The candid candle spreads her yellow gleams,
   Lighting the pathway of the moving hours,
The willowy stream flows by in pools of dreams,
   The wind swings, hushed, at anchor in the flowers.

First published in The Lone Hand, 1 July 1914

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