October 2014 Archives

Sails at Brixham by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on October 31, 2014 6:36 AM | No TrackBacks
I walked alone, a stranger I,
   To weald and wold and lea,
But when I saw the rust-red sails
   Beside the Brixham quay,
I felt within my veins the blood
   Rise up in ecstasy.

The sails along the Brixham sea,
   Flecked while with feathery foam,
Wore every shade of red that ran
   Through all the Devon loam--  
And Devon earth and Devon airs
   Cried me a welcome home.

The sturdy Brixham fishermen,  
   With faces weather-stung,
Talked to me where the fishing nets
   Along the harbour hung,
And oh, I listened half-entranced--
   I knew their Devon tongue.

A stranger I from far away,
   With ne'er a memory,
Yet when I saw those Brixham sails
   Take up the wind for me,  
I knew that through my blood there ran
   The salty Devon sea.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 31 October 1931

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

October Morning by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on October 30, 2014 7:58 AM | No TrackBacks
Above the golden meadow  
   Crying his joy aloud,
The skylark is a shadow
   That slants across a cloud,
A very little shadow upon a vasty cloud

That leans against the splendid  
   Blue battlements of day,  
In sunny airs suspended,  
   As silver-white as spray,
As white as are the tea-tree buds  
   On frosted branch and spray.

The soft October morning  
   Is mantled like a bride;  
For, mile on mile adorning  
   The scented countryside,  
The tea-tree strews a million stars
   Along the countryside.

The pines put forth new candles,
   New gum-tip tapers burn,
A march of golden vandals
   Among the bracken fern,  
The capeweed's countless hordes invade
   The hillsides and the fern.

This soft October morning
   Shall have its way, and I,  
My petty troubles scorning,  
   Shall turn and put them by.
Be glad with all the golden day  
   And let the world go by.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 30 October 1937

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

Old Sister Mary Martha by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on October 29, 2014 8:09 AM | No TrackBacks
Old Sister Mary Martha walks
   Behind the convent gate,
A-down the only path she knows.
Past blossoming tree and budding rose,
Counting her trembling steps, she goes,
   And makes the turn at eight.

Frail as a Winter bloom is she,
   And old, so very old.
Her eyes are like pale, frosted glass,
Her rusty skirts above the grass
Make scarce a whisper as they pass,
   Scarce stir the leafy mould.

Old Sister Mary Martha halts
   Beside the plum's white lace,
And for one moment fragrant things
From sweet, remembered, far-off Springs
Merge with the rush of angels' wings
   And lie along her face!

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 29 October 1929

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

The Secret by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on October 28, 2014 7:58 AM | No TrackBacks
Did the wide world know you loved me would it seen the kinder for it?
   Did the wide world know you loved me -- loved me best --
Would the searching light of day In the yearning soul abhor it?
   Or would the glad winds cry abroad the rapture in my breast?

Ah, no! keep the knowledge hidden, for the secret love is sweeter --
   Sweet to know it when they pass me in the hurrying, busy mart,
For it makes the link diviner, and the dream itself completer,
   While I carry all my secret safely hidden in my heart.

First published in The Queenslander, 28 October 1899

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Birds of the Bush by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on October 27, 2014 1:05 PM | No TrackBacks
I heard a blackbird in the hush of dawn, and started at the sound,
The echoes of that golden bell pealed from some kingdom that might well
Be still enchanted ground.

And all the world was somehow changed, it even seemed that, overseas,
All on a sudden it should be May, as well as August's break-o'-day,
In the Antipodes.

There were no blackbirds in the bush, among the gums and sassafras
Of those lost days the rocky tiers that rounded off my childhood years,
The plains of tussock grass.

Only the native birds, I wish that I could hear them now.
The wattle-doves that fall and rise all morning with their plaintive cries
About some golden bough.

Down gullies where the tree-ferns raised green arches and umbrellas,
At dusk the bronze-wing pigeon cooed and many a lively brotherhood
Of little green rosellas

Fled forth at morning on the wings of any wind that blew;
And from the sombre hills would sail, with melancholy screech and wail,
The strange black cockatoo.

Ground-larks ran through the tussock-tufts and played at hide-and-seek
In tawny reeds where, cold as ice, quicksilver springs would suddenly rise
And race to catch the creek.

The Whistling Dicks, from slope to slope called sweetly, lover to lover,
Sang their incomparable song, and wooing owls said all night long
The same thing, over and over.

Before the Derwent Jackass set his jester's-bells a-jingle,
The butcher-bird, Duke William sang, till the enchanted gullies rang
With echoes, double and single.

Where winking fairy waterfalls fluttered in silver inches
Blue-caps and redbreast robins would splash and sometimes one would catch a flash
Of hurrying fire-tail finches.

The magpies in a ringbarked gum bereft of bark or sheath
Warbled like souls in Kingdom-come; sang like seraphs from the dumb
Ivory-tower of death.

Oh blackbird on the blossoming rod sing once again; assuage
Dull days with hints of worlds to come, half-promise and half-premise; some
Improbable Golden Age!

Sing to me, alien bird, and if old songs have been denied
So long, as long as you can raise past magic with that matchless phrase
I shall be satisfied!

First published in The Bulletin, 27 October 1954

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

The Poet's Vow by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on October 26, 2014 8:23 AM | No TrackBacks
Beloved! O beloved one. 
   I write this this to tell you, dear, 
That earth and sky and sea and sun, 
   Are all of mine when you are near. 
My love for you is, as a fire 
   That burns with scented incense fine, 
A thing beyond all base desire, 
   Exquisite, holy, chaste, divine. 
Your eyes are humid pools of light, 
   There is a fragrance in your hair, 
And even in this silent night 
   I feel your presence everywhere. 
Adored of all, good-night, mine own, 
   The very stars your grace adore; 
      Believe me, 
         Ever thine alone... 
Alicia, Effie, Rose -- O Lor'! 
Whichever did I mean this for?

First published in The Bulletin, 26 October 1916

At the Concert by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on October 25, 2014 11:04 AM | No TrackBacks
All the time in this crowded hall I am thinking of the sea --
   A wave with its sudden tinkling fall,
And a gull's wing flying free,
   And a night sky like a wall,

With tiny cracks where the stars look through
   When the young moon lifts her blind
And runs all naked down the blue,
   The kiss of earth to find.

All the time in this crowded hall I am thinking of the sea,
   Where the yellow lights burn hot and bright
And the crowd move restlessly --
   Oh! the warble of the waters and the comfort of the night!

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 25 October 1927

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Old Lace by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on October 24, 2014 8:00 AM | No TrackBacks
I love old lace, tea-brown on Auntie's sleeves,
   The while she crochets mats and d'oileys white
In rose and shell and lilies lost in leaves.
   Her needles gleam like rapiers courtier-bright.
Oh, Auntie, very straight and stern of face,
Makes me see ruffled ladies sweet with grace,
Because she wears old lace.

My mother had a cloak of sapphire blue
   Lined with soft folding silk of mellow gold.
She wore it at a ball when I was two.
   Its satin decked with yellow lace and old.
When from my girlhood's dreams my spirit wake
She made it mine, and trie Love stopped to stroke
My mother's sapphire cloak.

Grandma, whose father was a Spanish bold,
   With swashing sea-brown locks and sunburnt eyes
Blue as the skies, black lace, demure and old,
   Sewed on her bonnet. Ah, I still can prize
Memories of violets amid black lace
Rustling with age -- her stately old embrace,
And no curl out of place.

I made my small pink dear a dolly's dress
   Of brown and yellow lace I found to-day,
Hidden away within a cedar press
   Choked with old treasures of a bygone play.
And while she watched I panged with sudden fear,
Seeing great Grandmamma in white lace peer
Out of my small pink dear.

First published in The Sydney Mail, 24 October 1923

Sun-Child by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on October 23, 2014 7:54 AM | No TrackBacks
I am the sun's dark child!
   Who can follow
My joyous way through the teeming wild,
   O'er hill and hollow?
I am the sun's dark child!
   None can follow --
None but the wind, warm-breathed and shy;
None but the flashing swallow! --
Only the blue, dissolving sky,
Only the wind can follow!

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 23 October 1928

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

The Circus by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on October 22, 2014 7:49 AM | No TrackBacks
A circle canvas roofed, with thousands of eager eyes
Turned to the roped enclosure, and outside the moonless skies
Gemmed with white stars that speak to some of rest and Paradise.
In the wide outer tent, where still the torches redly flare,
An angry tiger's shuddering cough cuts thro' the heavy air.

Now, high above the trampled ring, the choking sawdust whirl,
All eyes are fixed on the trapeze, where swings a round-limbed girl.
As she with free uplifted hand pins close a straying curl,
A woman screams, and hides her eyes; some coarse-faced seamen laugh;
Paquita blows a kiss to them, amid a storm of chaff.

Paquita! Queen of the Trapeze! Up higher still she goes,      
And now we see her laughing face, as fresh any rose;    
And yet -- a slip -- a sudden fear -- and who among us knows,          
How near death to Paquita in her airy triumph stands.    
She holds her life as lightly as the slim ropes in her hands.   
 
Outside, along the cool green parks, winds play among the trees,
Beyond, within the chapel walls, the nuns are on their knees,
And here we watch a woman's life a-swing on the trapeze! 
The pagan Roman lives to-night -- these dust choked tents for choice;
Not out of place the quavering cough of that lean tiger's voice!

First published in The Australasian, 22 October 1904

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Fairy Music by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on October 21, 2014 8:00 AM | No TrackBacks
I passed beside the haunted hill
   When all the mushroom caps were white.
I heard a music on the air -
   It filled each crevice of the night!

It filled each crevice of the night,
   And played the wandering wind upon;
More sweet that singing Israfel.
   It called to me and then was gone.

It called to me, and then was gone!
   I waited by the brown reeds, stark.
There only was the dying moon --
   And the wind blowing in the dark --

And the wind blowing in the dark,
   And tears upon my lids like rain.
God help me! I can joy no more
   Until I hear those sounds again!

First published in The Australasian, 21 October 1922

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Old Sundays by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on October 20, 2014 7:29 AM | No TrackBacks
Ah, those sweet old Sundays, walking to the meetings,
   Through the homestead paddocks, across the fescue grass;
Summer down the rutted tracks, neighbours' smiles and greetings,
   Glimmering in my memory like clear-spun glass!

Deep the sleepy golden light along the valley glowing;
   Deep in lush green herbage the cattle stood at ease,
Lifting up their lustrous eyes to watch our going,
   Underneath the dappled red and russet of the trees.

Then my frilly frock would sweep its thick white clover,
   Then my mop of brown hair had a scarlet ribbon tie;
All the bush birds whistled us, over still and over,
   Tags and snatches of the joy of earth and air and sky.

Through the open window a lost bee blundered,
   Cooler grew the shadows with the closing hymn.
"Will he see me home to-night, wait for me?" I wondered,
   When behind my mother's back I used to smile at Jim.

Heigh-ho for lads' love, the old times are over!
   Still on summer dawnings, when the light is breaking dim,
Often I will wonder, when the wind blows off the clover,
   Where is she that once was I, and what's become of Jim?

First published in The Bulletin, 20 October 1927

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

The Early Coach by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on October 19, 2014 4:17 PM | No TrackBacks
A star still swims in the pearly east,
   Where the morning lights encroach.
To us it is only a world of dreams
Of sleep-haunted scrubs and of mist-wreathed streams    
   On the early morning's coach.

The red road winds through a belt of pine,
   And the horses' hoofs ring hard
Past the edge of the scattered town,
Out to the ridges bare and brown,
   On by the still graveyard.

We cross the culverts above the creek,
   And on to the black soft plain;
We hear the birds in the myall grove,
And think of youth and a boyish love,
   And feel we are young again.

Crack! through the air goes the driver's whip;
   A jolt o'er a broken rail.
Press down the brake-as we skid the hill-  
In the slab hut they are sleeping still
   As we sort out the cocky's mail.

A golden flame sets the world a-fire
   To usher a summer morn;
It flushes the length of the chained lagoon
More like to the heart of the afternoon
   Than the early rose of dawn.

A moment more, and the day has come
   Through the gates of the world's approach;
Forget the night that has gone before --
'Tis good to be on the roads once more
   By the early morning's coach.

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 19 October 1904

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

In a Garden by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on October 18, 2014 7:17 AM | No TrackBacks
In this old garden where I walk 
   Laughter and tears I find 
Pursue me, and in silence talk 
   Sweet memories in my mind. 

Here are red roses dropping blood! 
   I see Adonis fly, 
And hear from every crimson bud 
   Warm Cytherea sigh. 

And there are lilies lost in thought 
   Whose leaves divinely grieve, 
As in each chalice closely-caught 
   I mark the tears of Eve. 

I move along from flower to flower 
   And pluck them wonderingly, 
When sunset chimes the golden hour 
   Of twilight's reverie. 

I twine the lily and the rose 
   With sprays of milky may, 
And violets whose odor flows 
   Fresh from the Appian Way. 

A sigh breaks from the ruby rose, 
   I hear a step all-light 
Ring rapture where the evening glows 
   Upon the heart of night. 

It nears, and from the garden spring 
   Delicious dreams and true. 
I stand in Eden marvelling, 
   Yet knowing it is you. 

I pause....I wait....The minutes die 
   And drop out one by one. 
Your step, film-footed, falters by 
   As it has ever done. 

Blind-eyed with tears the shadows crowd 
   Upon my helpless head. 
I make the flowers my bridal shroud.... 
   Joy lives and yet is dead. 

The mirthful stars spin bliss above. 
   I weep in agony, 
Weaving the pall of hopeless love 
   Here in Gethsemane.

First published in The Bulletin, 18 October 1917

Resurrections by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on October 17, 2014 7:37 AM | No TrackBacks
When the white roses die, they make a cloud,
Threading the wind with fragrance pure and sweet,
When the pink roses die, they trail the sun,
And faint in carmine wreaths about his feet;
But where the pansies huddle from the light
They merge in death, into the purple night,
Filched from the sun of some high summer's noon,
Their hearts have left us many a yellow moon.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 17 October 1931

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

The Voices by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on October 16, 2014 7:33 AM | No TrackBacks
Voices on the wind in the far waste pleas,
   Echoing on the forward breeze, dying down behind,
Bring dreams of desert ways and strange, wild faces,
   Blown along the blue waste, those voices on the wind.

Strange, wild voices that are past understanding,
   Keening through the tattered reeds round the creek-bed dry.
Out above the flapping bark, the deal trees standing
   By the dry watercourses where the wind rides high.

Only ghostly voices now, lost to all things mortal;
   The first lone-handed pioneers, the prospector alone,
And the wandering dusky people that have passed beyond the portal;
   Dust about the desert and the sandhills blown.

Voices of the faraway, I hear the echoes fleeting.
   A whip-crack breaks the silence, a careless rider sings;
Then latest, down the roads of air an engine's beating.
   And dark against the sun set the wide thrumming wings.

From hollows high with grasses in the green good seasons,
   From tall urn and frontage in the cool river rain,
From the iron hills, the torment of the red drought's treason,
   So they came and so they went and will not come again.

Airman, tramp, explorer and the lone out-riders,
   Their names are writ in water, scrawled in sand or carved in stone,
And the wild flowers are above them and the weaving siders,
   But Australia holds their secrets and Australia keeps her own.

First published in The Bulletin, 16 October 1929

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

The Little Girl and the Thrush by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on October 15, 2014 7:27 AM | No TrackBacks
Walking down the windy valley,
   Where the flowers were flung like spray
In the glimmering myrtle valley,
   Soon I tossed my hat away --
Laughed down places dark and shady,
   Clambered through the underbrush,
Till a voice came sweet, reproving,
Where the myrtle boughs were moving,
   "Be a lady,"
   Sang the thrush.

There was none to see or hear me --
   Off I pushed my cramping shoes --
Danced down leafy pathways near me
   Toward the valley's distant blues;
Danced down vistas damp and shady,
   Bare feet in the grasses lush,  
Where the earth was starred with yellow,
Still that voice came mocking, mellow,
   "Be a lady,"
   Sang the thrush.

First published in The Australasian, 15 October 1932

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

The Hills by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on October 14, 2014 7:29 AM | No TrackBacks
Take me to the hills again,
   Back where I belong;
Let me hear the wind's refrain
   And the river's song,
Hear the runnels in the rain
   When the nights are long;

Dream by morning waters cool,
   Fringed with green morasses,
Swaying reed and amber pool
   When October passes
Golden-eyed and beautiful
   Through the feathery grasses.

Not for me the blue allure
   Of the wide sea-lanes,
Creaming reef or shingled shore,
   White steeds' flying manes;
Where I left my heart of yore
   Still my heart remains.

Not for me  the jostling whirl,
   Cold and careless faces.
Where the dusty breezes swirl
   Round the market places;
Better far the glens of pearl
   That the cloud embraces.

I could never watch the rose,
   Jade and jasper render
Radiance to the evening's close
   Veiled with purples tender
With the houses, rows on rows,
   Shutting out the splendor.

First published in The Bulletin, 14 October 1926

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

Lazyvale by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on October 13, 2014 7:15 AM | No TrackBacks
Along the road to Lazyvale,
   Half way to Half Past Nine, 
I found a little daisy dale,
   And sat down there to dine; 
With 20,000 fairy men
From Nowadays till Then.
We each one had a crazy pall
   Of such a wondrous wine,
The bees make in that daisy dale
   Half way to Half Past Nine. 
It tasted like brook water clear 
To lips of Just One Year.
A pedlar out from Lazyvale
   Cried, "Buy! Come, buy my wares!" 
And at that little mazy sale
   I bought me joys for cares. 
With 20,000 fairy men
From Nowadays till Then. 
This really is a hazy tale,
   But would it not be fine 
To loiter back to Lazyvale,
   Half way to Half Past Nine, 
And in a dainty daisy dale 
Find fairy wares for sale?

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 13 October 1934

The She-Oak Tree by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on October 12, 2014 7:14 AM | No TrackBacks
The she-oak tree outside my door,
   Is like some sombre Nun who stands,  
Upon a cold mosaic floor,

Chanting her prayers in sanctity.
   I hear the beads slip through her hands,
The while she drones her Rosary.

Her rusty-black, wind-lifted veil  
   Conceals the contour of her form;    
I see her face, austere and pale.  

And when the night is full of moan
   I hear her voice blown through the storm,
Praying for them who walk alone.    

And then I think she prays for me,  
Counting each Holy Mystery.
I hear the beads slip through her hands,  
The while she chants her Rosary.  

First published in The Australasian, 12 October 1918

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

October Tales by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on October 11, 2014 7:34 AM | No TrackBacks
How many years we might live, yet have missed
   The meaning of October! O ye trees
All yellow blossom, and the amethyst
   Of jacarandas bowing to the breeze!

A hundred years one might live, keen to see
   And taste the beauty of recurring years,
Yet only touch the edge of mystery
   And only guess the rhythm of the spheres!

How short a time we have to watch you
   (Dear blossomy of Spring!) and fruit and die --
But dreams can follow wheresoe'er you go,
   And Fancy is as wide as any sky!

So we shall keep you safe, October gold,
   Touching with memory purple, blue and red.
A human heart has room enough to hold
   A living flower when the bloom is dead!

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 11 October 1927

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Little Town by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on October 10, 2014 7:13 AM | No TrackBacks
All so blue and green and brown,
The lazy, lonely little town
Invited nothing much when I
Came down the hill to hurry by.

And then I heard a pixie sing. 
Was it a child upon a swing?
A woman waved from a white door, 
Or Spring in flowery pinafore?

My heart grew light. I know not why, 
And I sang, too, as I passed by 
That lazy, lonely little town,
All so blue and green and brown.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 10 October 1938

When I Was Born by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on October 9, 2014 7:10 AM | No TrackBacks
When I was born they might have closed the windows of the room,
Have shut out gardens deep enrosed, and glossed magnolia bloom;
The warm white buds that on their lips, altho' the day was done, 
Still keep the thin gold arrow-tips they have filched from the sun, 
The love of suns, of greeting springs, was birthright to my soul.

When I was born they might have drawn a curtain o'er the pane,  
For in the blue sky till the dawn a full white moon did reign;
A large-eyed Venus is the moon clasped round by cloud above,  
She gives to babes a doubtful boon, the gift of passionate love.  

When I was born they might have stilled that wild brown bird that sings,  
His reckless heart by music filled, with rhythm on his wings,  
Ere, fitting to the lattice sill, thro' the warm, moon-washed air,  
Down to my ear he bent to trill and dropt a feather there;  
And made me his, by no calm choice -- soul-fettered and fate-bound,  
Wringing my heart for that true note which but by pain is found.  

When I was born a trumpet bloom cast forth it's almond breath,
A blossom pale against the gloom, a slim white perfumed death;  
Great Java lily buds that start, far in the jungled south,  
Would they had pressed its poisoned heart above my helpless mouth!  

When I was born they might have closed the windows of the room,  
Have shut out garden walks enrosed and glossed magnolia bloom;  
Have shut out hints of dewy morn, the pulsing green and blow,  
For all my days I feel the thorns, who loved the roses so;  
But open was the room to skies and heavy life-filled air,  
And in the grass were fire-flies and flowers everywhere.  

My mother liked the shutters wide, she liked to smell the flow'rs;  
She liked to see the planets ride thro' the long waiting hours;
She liked to see the stir begin about the gates of morn;
She did not know that grief slipped in, the night that I was born.

First published in The Australasian, 9 October 1909

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Dunkeld by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on October 8, 2014 7:27 AM | No TrackBacks
Did I dream while the flames leaped up and the cinders fell, 
   And a frozen wind fingered the window pane? 
Did the silence flee at the sound of a distant hell? 
   Was there no wind under the eaves, no wandering rain --
Only the hazy hush of a long summer's day 
   Simmered in gold, and the wattle honey-smelled, 
And I heard a bullock-bell in the ranges say, 
   "Dun-keld! Dun-keld! Dunkeld!" 

Peak beyond peak the Grampians marched away 
   To the world's end, it seemed, and the river sang. 
Mile beyond mile the fernclad uplands lay 
   Warm to the noon, and the noonday music rang 
Hesitating and high in the hills again, 
   In a rhymeless monotone, for the morning held 
No sound so insistent as the slow refrain 
   Of the bullock-bells in the distance at Dunkeld. 
I saw the cloud and the eagle's circling flight, 
   And the blue deeps back of the rocky, wandering stair, 
Where the heat waves shimmer to silver out of sight, 
  And the red-gums' banners droop in the drowsy air. 
Was it fairy land or only a day in spring, 
   With the bees abroad and the late heath crimson-belled, 
And the river in flood, and my heart remembering, 
   And the white dust thick by the roadway at Dunkeld?
 
The blue smoke curled from a far-away camp fire, 
   The unforgettable incense of grass-tree burning; 
The dews that threaded their beads on the fencing wire 
   Winked in the sun and were gone till the dew's returning. 
The old glory is over the morning still, 
   And the old magic, potent as that which held 
Enchantment ever by valley and ridge and hill 
   When it's spring again in the ranges at Dunkeld.
 
The blossoming tea-tree sprinkled its fairy frost 
   Over the mosses tinder the mantled trees; 
The lizards basked on the reef, and a wavering lost 
   Call of a cuckoo floated along the breeze. 
All was as ever it Was, and a carillon 
   Of magpies shattered the silence, silver-belled, 
Letting their warbling strains drift one by one 
   Till the silvery echoes grew silent at Dunkeld. 

There is wind at the door and sleet on the window pane; 
   Low burns the flame -- have I been dreaming at whiles? 
I thought that spring shook down its blossomy rain, 
   And minty warm was the wind down the long bush miles.
I dreamed -- did I dream? It was surely a summer's day 
   When the heavy censers of blossom sway, honey-smelled, 
And all the bullock-bells in the ranges say 
   "Dun-keld! Dun-keld! Dun-keld!" 

First published in The Bulletin, 8 October 1930

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

October by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on October 7, 2014 7:28 AM | No TrackBacks
This opal-hearted month is laced with gold,
Her yellow robes sweep thro' the dust of flowers;
She has her slow, sweet nights, her mist-blue hours
Of twilight, and her amber arms enfold
Spring blooms and summer! -- Mystic month, I see
A sprig of Hope amid your blossomry!  

First published in The Courier-Mail, 7 October 1933

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Any Woman by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on October 6, 2014 7:12 AM | No TrackBacks
I do not matter. I am dust and air,
Blown like a moth, a soft wind everywhere.
Happy am I in this old thought of me --
I am worth nothing to infinity.

I now may laugh, may sing in mad delight,
Wonder and wander in the whispering night:
No one shall care, no one take thought of this --
I'm but a spark, a butterfly, a kiss.

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 6 October 1925

White Cockatoos by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on October 5, 2014 7:22 AM | No TrackBacks
The ringbarked gum on the flat below 
Is burdened with blossoms of living snow; 
Bare as a bone 
It stood alone, 
Flowerless, till five minutes ago. 

The breeze that was all the day retelling 
The news that the first cuckoo was spelling 
Carefully over 
The paddocks of clover 
Is suddenly rent with a raucous yelling. 

The purring river forgets to purr, 
The rushes lash and the reedbeds stir, 
The mood of the flat 
Is like that of a cat 
Suddenly roughed the wrong way of its fur. 

It must be important, the way they shout; 
It may be a secret, though this I doubt. 
Will deafness fall 
On one and all? 
What are the cockatoos screaming about? 

Then suddenly, as at the word of "go," 
Over the rise they flap and flow. 
Slip from the branches 
Like avalanches 
Of some impossible summer snow.

First published in The Bulletin, 5 October 1955

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

The Old Sunbonnet by Mabel Forrest

By Perry Middlemiss on October 4, 2014 7:32 AM | No TrackBacks
Across to the store I went to-day
To get some things for Missus,
Two grey-winged doves on the bank at play,
Cooed low of love and kisses.

I had such an old bonnet upon my head,
   'Twas scarcely fit for a gin,
And I hurried along by the engine shed,
   For fear that Brian was in.

Brian was born in far Lisburn Town,
   He has sailed the Irish Sea,
And I'm sure the girls of County Down
   Are better looking than me!

But Brian, he stares so long and hard,
   And his eyes are real true and good,
I like to stand in the timber yard,
   When the circular saw cuts wood.

With the smell of sawdust in the air,
   And the great steam engine's song,
When Brian, the Engineer, is there,
   So cheery and gay and strong.

But to-day I felt such an awful fright
   (Men's hearts are nigh to their eyes),
So I didn't look to the left or right,
   But I felt my colour rise.

I heard his step crunch loud on the sand,
   My heart made such a din!
As he touched my arm with his brown hand,
   "What a hurry you're in!

That shabby old bonnet upon your head,
   Acushla, don't try to hide it!
For it's not the bonnet I see," he said,
   "But the rare bright face inside it!"

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 4 October 1905

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Bethrothed by Zora Cross

By Perry Middlemiss on October 3, 2014 7:11 AM | No TrackBacks
All in the green and golden weather
Young Love and I ran wild together
Happy horns were blowing blithe
Through the leaves and asses lithe,
And down the little dappled trees
Boy Summer shook his melodies.
Oh, the world was good and green,
And the wind blew white and clean.
With bee and bird alive with mirth
Because two sweethearts trod the earth,
Making all the morning sing
With their joyous triumphing.

All in the green and golden weather
Young Love and I knelt grave together
On the mossy rocks and grey,
In the girlhood of the day.
And underneath the magic sun
we pledged two little lives in one.
Oh, our hearts beat brave and high,
Looking upward to the sky.
And I was sure, and you were, too,
As kissing all our bodies through,
Sun and leaf and laughing air
Wed us to each other there.

First published in The Bulletin, 3 October 1918

The World Outside by Myra Morris

By Perry Middlemiss on October 2, 2014 7:45 AM | No TrackBacks
Smooth as a ship that takes
A silken sea I ride
Into the half-forgotten world
Of earth and sky outside.

Nothing there is too small,
Too large to hold and press
Deep, deep into the warm cocoon
Of my new-born consciousness.

White hens with scarlet combs
Treading the roadside grass;
Tatters of gold on totem-trees;
Clouds splintered like mirror-glass;

And, startling as a shout,
A yacca late in flower
Lifting on high pale bell on bell,
A trembling carven tower.

O tree of ivory!
O image of delight!
A warm effulgence now will fill
The darkest depths of night.

For beauty's shape ensnared
In a moment's joy lives on
As the song of a bird stays in the air
When the song is done.

First published in The Bulletin, 2 October 1957

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

A Face in the Street by Kathleen Dalziel

By Perry Middlemiss on October 1, 2014 7:17 AM | No TrackBacks
Only a face in the street, 
   Haunting me many a day; 
Passed on the wave of the crowd 
Out where the noises are loud, 
Out where the hurrying feet 
   Pause not or stay. 

Only a face in the street, 
   Such as the angels have had. 
Fair like the gold of the corn, 
Waved by the winds of the morn; 
Eyes that were wondrously sweet --
   Proud and yet sad. 

Only a face in the street. 
   Haunting me many a day; 
Passing and vanished and gone. 
Swiftly the crowd hurried on. 
Only a face in the street --
   Fair as the May.

First published in The Bulletin, 1 October 1903

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.
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