Long waves of grey regret on beaches lost,
Or glimmering thro' the fabric of a dream
An empty boat upon a pale sea to'st,
Or, seen thro' driving mist, a lighthouse gleam:
Sand winds in pines, a pathway on a hill
Rain swept and desolate, and haunted still,
A forest without end of dark boled trees;
A fern brake, full of crouching mysteries.
Straight lines of chairs a large, slow-moving fan;
A row of footlights, and a small stout man
Drawing the echoes of old tragedies
From the brown 'cello gripped between his knees.
First published in The Australasian, 4 November 1916
