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
