After four years of this blog, reprinting a different poem each day, I've decided to bring it to a close. It's been fun but it's time to move onto something else.
Not sure what just yet.
December 2014 Archives
I dreamed beside the smouldering fire.
I said, "Oh, thoughts, go far
And bring me back the loveliest,
The dearest things there are!"
And then straightway, wide-winging out,
My thoughts were little bees
That nestled joyfully within
The blown anemones.
Within those silken cups they curled,
Then swift -- they'd hardly gone --
They brought me back sheer loveliness
To lay my sleep upon!
First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 31 December 1929
Her hands were slim as lilies white,
And in her eyes an emerald light
Continually burned still fire.
Her fingers moved along a lyre,
As delicate as lilac leaves.
She was the soul that in me grieves
The woman I shall one day be,
Love-lorn beside a phantom sea.
O unborn woman, writing here
The lines you'll read in a new year,
Look up, remember me again,
And all my pity, all my pain,
My loves, my hopes, my woman-tears,
That shall pursue you down the years.
First published in The Australasian, 30 December 1922
A wind well-laden with scent and heat
Drifts through the saplings' ragged crests
And leans on the lovely curving breasts
Of the cool green wheat.
The curtseying harvest, hated in light,
Ripples and runs from the air's embrace.
Over their waves the white clouds chase
Grey shade out of sight.
Yellow weed-bloom where the headland narrows,
Daggered thistles in purple pride;
Cockatoos feeding, watchful-eyed,
Snow-flaked along the furrows.
Darting parakeets down the track
Hurl like a handful of jewels tossed
Into the blue and therein lost,
No one to fling them back.
All the Wimmera is under cover
Heaven and the harvest, verge to verge,
Joined by the heat-wave's silver surge
Just where the blue bends over.
The world that the harvest grain is clothing
Seems to descend and disappear
In a scintillation of aching air
Over the edge of nothing.
And the rolling wheat and the world appear
To turn so softly through time and space
The air of It passing upon my face
Scarcely ruffles my hair.
First published in The Bulletin, 29 December 1948
A little back from the street it stands,
With trim parterres and shutters green,
And tall sunflowers in a row;
Such is the setting, prim, serene,
To the life he hated so!
The doors are closed, the house is still;
With a peace that tells not of shame,
The silence of deeds well done;
The brass plate with the dead man's name
Still winks in the morning sun.
Who would dream those walls hold grief untold,
And a horror of bated breath!
Secure in snug suburban pride,
No outward hint of a shameful death
Marks the house of the suicide.
First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 28 December 1904
Whene'er I think of you, my fighting son,
You draw quite near to me.
You speak, you move, as you have always done,
Though my quick memory.
You are myself -- bone of my bones; all me.
Sometimes I seem to leap
Red o'er your parapets of misery,
While you lie here asleep.
I have known pain and patience both for you.
Rough torments I have slain --
Moulded you, manned you, made you bold and true,
Yielded you heart and brain.
You were my babe, my all, my lighting son,
Taking full life from me.
Still, still you draw it, and our two lives run
In perfect unity.
I fight with you. I charge the hot, dark hill.
I meet your pangs, your woes.
And I shall hold you, strong of heart and will,
Till our full triumph flows.
If you fall, I must fall - but not to death.
Oh, to eternity
You still are mine beyond the sobbing breath
The last pain draws from me.
First published in The Bulletin, 27 December 1917
Green parrots, with orange beaks
In a tree of orange and green,
And under the tree the gleaming grass,
Where waves of light on the shadow pass,
And a lily sways between.
Green parrots climbing in blossomy boughs,
With a cheery call and a friendly wing,
A flash of blue and a splash of rose,
And the sound of myriad bees that flows
Through the monotone of spring.
Pale on the sky the harebell hills
And the city, blue and blurred,
A quivering hedge where the wind has been
On a garden's green, the feathery green
Of a honey-seeding bird.
How many miles did you trail your fancy?
(Orange beak in an orange cup)
With a flirt of tail and the sudden fling
Of the blue and rose of the under-wing
As you drink the summer up.
What distant hollow with faint stars lit
In pearly greyness of dawning dew
Saw your waking glances farewell the night,
Knew the driving dart of your early flight
As to scented stores you flew?
I am glad, at least, that you chose this tree,
That the gold-stained blossoms that front the East
Were filled by the gods with mead for you,
That the path of the sky was bright and blue,
And my garden spread the feast!
First published in The Sydney Mail, 26 December 1928
Beside the heap of smouldering fire
The poor old woman sits --
Old Madeleine with high-veined hands
And hardly any wits.
Her skirt drags down a rusty-green,
Her boots are torn and spread,
But over her thin shoulder-blades
There hangs a coat of red.
A coat that takes the light and flings
It back derisively --
A mocking note that challenges
Old age and penury!
And color-blind no longer I
See poor old Madeleine,
I only vision splendid things,
Old passions that have been!
Old pumps and gallantries of youth
Go by; her voice is drowned
In laughter like a waterfall,
In bursts of marching sound!
Gay ribbons wave from crowded walls,
Tap-tap go dancing shoon;
A stooping, long-faced fiddler plays
Beneath a harvest moon.
So gay the coat of Madeleine
Around her shoulders flung,
I know that, though her eyes are old,
Her heart is young, so young!
First published in The Bulletin, 25 December 1929
Here are no merry bells achime,
No midnight carols heard;
Only the windmill's clanking rhyme,
The slow creek's whispered word;
The cricket songs of summer time,
The calling of a bird.
Yet one may think on Bethlehem,
Nor deem it very far,
Where little fields the farmstead hem
And flocks all drowsy are;
Where in the green west like a gem
Hangs one grave, lovely star.
The sleeping range and valley wear
So soft an air and mild,
Somewhere up in the sky I heal
A black swan's bugle wild.
And, past the lighted window square,
The laughter of a child.
And Love comes in that little gate
And all his gifts receive,
Where heavenly peace and quiet wait
Day's burden to relieve --
We need no bells to celebrate
Our own sweet Christmas Eve.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 24 December 1938
(On hearing the news of the capture of the Emden.)
O! Sydney, I must tell you how glad I am to-day!
Send a message to your villas stretching out to Watson's Bay,
And your South Head and your North Head and the jewels of your spray.
I can almost hear the cheering, and my heart is full of song,
For the wind has brought me whispers as it sweeps the paean along,
And it beats the heart to laughter as a swift stroke on a gong.
Yes, there must be flags in Sydney, waving like a bunch of flowers,
When the southerly is carrying off the heat of earlier hours,
When the drought of noon is broken by a silver rush of showers.
All the World was waiting for you, O! you cruiser, staunch and grey,
Barely two years old, you beauty, an as fresh as child at play;
With the gallant ensigns streaming and a spirit brave as they.
Just two knots (top speed) the swifter! and the Emden for a catch!
The ship that blocked the trade doors till your touch was on the latch;
By the corralled Cocos Islands, there the German met his match.
O, my dear, dear Sydney's namesake! I could should and dance and sing,
For the dining brought a message on a happy, hurtling, wing,
And I heard the cry of "Sydney!" rising high o'er everything.
First published in The Sydney Mail, 23 December 1914
Somebody died in our house last night
While the little moon looked through the curtains white.
Somebody died that I loved so well
I am almost too frightened and sad to tell.
I dug the grave in the yard myself,
With the spade that I keep on the nursery shelf.
Nobody knew I was out of bed,
So they don't even guess that there's someone dead.
Only my toys and my dollies know,
For they hear me sob in the darkness so;
"No more to-morrows with six-times-three,
Now it's seven-times-one that is here with me."
First published in The Bulletin, 22 December 1921
I stand beside her grave; the sod is brown,
Long hours of sunshine o'er the mound must pass,
And winds must blow and gentle rains come down,
Ere Nature spreads her woven mat of grass
Above the rest that she has found at last;
Above the spot where toil cannot encroach,
Where busy Care is crushed and overpast,
Where clutching shapes of Greed dare not approach.
I do not grieve as one who mourning stands;
I do not bow the head or bend the knee;
I see in fancy those poor work-worn hands,
I think how very tired she used to be!
I think of weary feet that onward pres't,
The look of anxious care she always wore;
I know how good to her is this long rest,
And pray that it is sleep for evermore!
First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 21 December 1904
Perhaps I have been selfish as is sin.
A thief of beauty, I have stolen flower
And fragrance, fruit, and colour hour by hour,
And in my greedy heart close locked it in,
Perhaps when many duties called in voices thin
I turned aside to dream in some rich bower
Of Poesy I made from stars that shower
Their mysteries where images begin.
I know all this; and see against my name
The many marks tumultuously crowd.
For these in bitter pangs doubtless I'll pay.
But when the reckoning is done, and shame
Lies in her own poor home-spun little shroud,
Say that I gave a child one happy day.
First published in The Australasian, 20 December 1924
A Queensland girl-- not a beauty;
But, oh! the dear, deep eyes of her!
A man might forget his duty,
Find his brain in a hopeless whirr,
Where Love and Hate and Longing whirl,
All because of that Queensland girl!
For she had a way of looking at you,
With her eyes as brown as a grass-tree's spears,
Till your soul fell shuddering thro' and thro',
So near to laughter; so close to tears!
'Twas as though she took your heart in her hand,
And turned and looked at it, pressed it close,
And left you a god with a world's command,
Or helpless, rudderless, all morose!
She wanted the dingo's skin for her room
As a tawny mat for her trim arched feet;
So I followed him through the green scrub gloom,
And I lost him northward with hack dead beat.
But I hurried back to the river gate,
And I caught and saddled the outlaw brown,
And by storm-red dawning and star-shine late,
With a sure white anger I tracked him down!
So I carried the pelt to her at last,
Sweet, tanned, and soft for her rosy feet,
And the one swift, flickering smile she cast
Chained me to her chariot wheels complete!
She wanted a cluster of water-buds,
Blooms that rise on the grey "Dead Man's" lagoon;
Just a few were left since the Autumn floods,
And I rode to pluck them one afternoon.
A treacherous place with a weed-pack old,
Weed that twists and twines round the swimmer's limbs
Till it grips him close in each slimy fold,
And bad luck to the man who weakly swims!
With a hearing chest I had dragged them up,
Slippery snake-stalk and dripping flower,
Of pale fragile petal and golden cup,
That would wilt and die in one sun-warm hour.
But I splashed by swamp and by crackling reed
From the spot where the nesting black duck wake,
And the brown's side showed how good horses bleed
For a foolish whim and a woman's sake.
But the lingering touch from her sun-kissed hand--
Oh! men who have loved, can you understand?
Had she sighed at night for the first wan star
That high in the gallery of planets woke,
I vow I had climbed to my neck's risk, far
On the bending boughs of the silky oak--
I had stretched my fingers, all desperate,
I had strained my arms o'er Death's very brink,
Tho' the blue star, hanging by Heaven's gate,
Would ever as distant and bluely blink--
Had she asked me to fetch a northern pearl,
Where the coral reef thro' the surf strikes down,
I had spurned the waves for that Queensland girl
To the myriad crab-walks winding brown --
Where the black shark cuts thro 'the amber gleam
Of the emerald-hued, sun-filtered sea,
And the mermaids rock in a long day dream
With their flax hair falling from brow to knee.
I had dared it all for the promised bliss
Of her soul and her body's white for mine,
For the jewel rare of her slow, fond kiss,
And the wife-caress and the arms that twine.
But she loved me not, and at last I knew,
And I vowed myself for the barren West,
With love that writhed and a grief that grew,
And the hate of rivals within my breast.
There were other suitors who came to woo,
Fine and honest men for a woman's mate
Oh! you who have loved will have mem'ry, too,
Of the way that a jealous man can hate!
For she had a way of looking at them,
With eyes as brown as the grass-tree spears;
With deep-down the glint of a hidden gem,
That would never melt into gentle tears,
For the laughter came like a shaft of sun,
And stayed in her eyes like a wreath of stars
When the sunset pales and the sky grows dun
Out above the line of the black belars.
And they told me that one had wealth for her,
A treasure of jewels and tracts of land;
But she still would smile and a space demur
Ere she gave forever that slim brown hand.
But the end was sure; he was tall and straight;
Blue-eyed as a sapphire Queensland sky;
Just the man for a slight, dark woman's mate,
And no rough bush-wooer, tongue-tied as I!
So I went at dusk to her window ledge
And I laid my gift on her window-sill
Of a fern frond pulled by the river's edge,
And some heart-sweet hoya from up the hill.
Then I turned away where the white gate swings,
And the quivering gum trees arch and sigh,
And I heard the brush of a night hawk's wings
That swooped and struck as it hastened by.
"It is done," I said. "'Tis my one good-bye,
And at dawn I ride to the sun-parched West."
Then I heard a sound like a plover's cry,
And it seemed that leaf fell on my breast.
Not a leaf-- a hand! Does my brain still swirl!
It was Death -- but she -- she has made it life,
For my arms were holding my Queensland girl,
"My Queen, my maiden, my love, my wife!"
For she has a way of looking at you,
With her eyes as brown as the grass-tree spears,
Till your sour falls shuddering thro' and thro',
Half in rippling, laughter and half in tears.
And she took my heart in her tender hand,
And she read it truly, and held it near,
Till I was a god with a world's command,
Till I was the King whom the Queen found dear!
A Queensland girl-- not a beauty;
But, oh! the dear deep eyes of her!
A man who forgets his duty,
Find his brain in a hopeless whirr,
Where Love and Hate and Madness whirl,
All because of that Queensland girl!
First published in The Sunday Times, 19 December 1909
High noon flooded the mountain-side
In summery silence deep.
All on a sudden the valley sighed,
And the wind awoke from sleep.
All on a sudden the wind awoke
Whispering far and near.
Tree-top with rustling tree-top spoke,
And the saplings leaned to hear.
It broke the spirals of blue wood-smoke,
The scents of the Bush unbound,
Till all the world was a leafy cloak
Of murmur and light and sound.
Then, letting the sun-drenched fragrance fall
To earth like a drift of rain,
Tired at the mountain's misty wall
It sank into sleep again.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 18 December 1937
As I went up by Oliver's Hill,
The sea lay under me, blue and still,
With the curving sand and the tea-tree laid
In a marbled pattern of light and shade.
As I went up by Oliver's Hill,
I whistled a tune that was blithe and shrill;
No happier thing, there moved than I
Under the matchless morning sky!
As I looked out from Oliver's Hill
Over the sea world, blue and still,
I saw a ship with a wisp of grey
Moving out on the far-away.
As I came down from Oliver's Hill
My heart lay grieving, cold and still!
How to stay while that ship rode free,
To breast the tides of some unknown sea!
First published in The Australasian, 17 December 1927
We, the haters of war,
Its folly and its waste;
Cry to the builders of ships,
Cry to the makers of guns:
Haste!
Lest the words, "It is ours!"
Be but an empty boast --
Empty the sunlit miles,
Empty the dreaming coast.
If you would keep your land,
Pinewood, and gum and palm,
We, the haters of war,
Cry to the nation, "Arm!"
Let our air fleets gather and wing
High in the dazzling blue;
Defence, for the homes we love,
The creeds that our fathers knew
Lest over the peaceful seas,
Over the coralled coast,
Threaten the alien hordes,
Threatens the robber host!
Tall are our city towers,
Pride to our hearts they give:
Ours is the right to own,
Ours be the right to live!
We, the haters of war!
Its horror, its bitter waste,
Cry to the builders of ships,
Cry to the makers of guns:
"Haste!"
First published in The Courier-Mail, 16 December 1933
Where are the dreams of our lost infancy
That lit with colour every grey, old day?
Where the romance that filled our morning way
And made a castle of a fallen tree?
Shall treasure ships go out no more to sea
Whose masts lie rank in some forgotten bay?
Shall no red pirates man the deck of play?
Nor green-eyed goblins down the forest flee?
Ah! child, that dreamed in lands of make-believe,
Building fern bridges for the fairies' feet,
Hiding in caves from some pale phantom fear,
Remembering still, I laugh. How can I grieve?
My childhood's faith in all things still is sweet;
I build its castles yet since Love is here.
First published in The Sydney Mail, 15 December 1920;
and later in
The Register, 19 February 1921.
We both walked slowly o'er the yellow grass
That spread long leagues beneath late afternoon.
We saw the coloured sunset pale and pass,
The tilted curving of a crescent moon
Swing in the after glow when clouds were curled.
Far off the church bells chimed, serene and slow,
And Sabbath peace and calm were o'er the world
That evening, long ago.
Now, when the grasses turn from green to gold
And shadows lengthen on the sunset plain,
One walks the path that two had trod of old,
One dreams the old dreams over once again.
But ah! the world has grown so grey, so grey,
And haunting memory seems to hurt me so,
The echoes of the hour you went away
That evening, long ago.
First published in The Brisbane Courier, 14 December 1929
These things are left to me;
The magic of the sea
Blackbirds that sing at dawn,
Frilled daisies round a dappled lawn!
No matter what has been,
Still have I worlds of green,
Sunsets that flame and die,
Blown boughs against a wintry sky!
If I have reached no place
That I had hoped to grace,
This have I known and known --
Earth's beating heart against my own!
First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 13 December 1927
Soft brown eyes fringed in lashes black as jet,
Dark girls are so mysterious,
I think They are fit subject for a triolet.
Soft brown eyes hinged in lashes black as jet.
Bright blondes, maybe, are fruit flowers pink and white;
But secret as a dim magnolia night.
Soft brown eyes hinged in lashes black as jet,
Dark girls are so mysterious I think.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 12 December 1938
'Twas all very well away back on the station,
In the long lazy days by the weedy lagoon,
When one wearied a little of self-contemplation,
And welcomed a change as a heaven-sent boon!
'Twas all very well when you brought me that wattle
All golden with sun and the scent of a dream,
Or let me admire while you cut out cattle,
And tried to get thrown--just to see if I'd scream!
'Twas all very well in the garden at even,
When the heavy night air warmed the heart like new wine,
When the wide sleeping world seemed much nearer to heaven,
To look " Yes" to your eyes when they pleaded "Be mine."
But you must remember times do not get better,
The station is mortgaged, the cattle are dead;
You have only your hands now--would you forge a fetter
When what the heart asks is not urged by the head?
Your overdraft rankles, I know; and while single
You're only yourself in the homestead to-day,
And often, you know, when two loving hearts mingle
There's little to eat, and the devil to pay!
So forget, if you can, all that passed on the station--
The kisses we've had, and the days that were dear--
It is all for the best, so keep on your one ration,
And--l'll marry for money the end of the year!
First published in The Queenslander, 11 December 1897
When Mary hushed her Son to sleep
Beneath the trees at even fall --
The dusky cedars used to keep
Green watch and ward above it all.
And all that hour was filled with grace,
And every flower looked up with joy
To see the light on Mary's face
While crooning to the drowsy Boy.
But ere the stars are blossom-white
In fields of heaven, one sad, closed flower
('Tis said) crept by her garments bright
And caught their color from that hour --
The holy blue of Mary's gown;
And, sad no more, to morning skies
Flung forth triumphant, over-blown
With all the blues of Paradise,
The morning glory, still to keep
Her blossoming mantle mystical,
Though thrones have crumbled in a heap,
And into dust those idols all....
Since Mary hushed her Son to sleep
Beneath the trees at even-fall.
First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 10 December 1929
It's junket-time in Fairyland. Who's coming to the feast?
Here's Puck with all his pixie band and fifty gnomes at least
Tugging a million flower-cups of dainty morning dew.
Where every little fairy sups I'm going. Oh, aren't you?
A petal for an aeroplane -- be quick, now, Lazy Ned!
The moonlight falls like silver rain, the peach blooms out of bed.
It's Springtime on the old brown earth, and that's the time to climb
To Fairyland by Light of Mirth in jolly junket-time.
Tie up the 'plane with moonbeams three to any waiting star.
Now, here we go. Ho! merrily, in Mab's own blossom-car.
My lips can taste the dainty fare. Fast, fast the minutes spin.
Tip-tippety-toe upon the stair, for this is Goblin Inn.
The feast is ready -- bring your plates of plum and apple bloom.
There's merry Mab and all her mates dancing about the room.
The witches wait upon us here, and every child may change
For sixty smiles a single tear, and not one soul is strange.
Oh, ho! What music, music blows! Oh, ho! What minstrels play!
Each blade of grass that greenly grows is here a pipe all gay;
And piping, piping, piping up the floor and back again,
As lightly as the fairies sup, Titania leads her train.
Oh, brightly, lightly, off they go, with a trip, trip, trip, trip, trip!
Who'll dance with me once heel and toe before we pause to sip
Of syrup sweet and honeys fine and cakes of elfin spice,
Served up with honeysuckle wine and bread as white as rice?
First published in The Sydney Mail, 9 December 1925
"Have you never travelled?" "No; never, Sir; I am the native born.
And my journeys lie in Australian nights to the red Australian morn.
I know the path of the leopard gum and the trail of the kumquat ridge,
And the way I go to the east and west is over a fancy bridge.
I am shut in by my turquoise sea, and walled in by my coral strand;
Oh, tell the tales of your journeying, and your lilt of a further land."
He looked at her with his world-wise eyes, and he smiled with a practised lip.
And he let the pearls of a polished tongue o'er the records of mem'ry slip,
And he told her legends of Irish lakes of heather and Scottish highland,
But the one she loved the best of all was the tale of the unknown island.
For he was king of that magic land, he was lord of the story,
And he painted fields of unfading flow'rs; skies of unclouded glory,
Till the gum trees drooped to blinded eyes, and the badge of the Queensland spring
In the wattle tufts on the scrubland edge was only a tarnished thing.
He loosed his rein, and he rode away, away to the cloud-cloaked highland,
And now she knowns 'tis a sea of tears that girdles the unknown island.
First published in The Sydney Mail, 8 December 1909
The wind leaped up from the sea, strong voiced and exultant.
Tearing the pride of the blossom to tatters of pearl,
And the white gulls are scattered like petals about, and to windward
The grey ribboned wrack wreaths unfurl.
Crazing the she-oaks again with its aeons old malice,
Spurring the waves on their useless and passionate quest,
Till, like a thousand pale roses slow fading and fallen,
Day withers away in the west.
Over the darkness a silvery pallor already
Tinging the tops of the waters, where veiled and in vain,
Over the sea wall, white shapes leap up through the unsteady
Flurry of wandering rain.
Round, red, and wonderful, over the tumbling riot,
Rises the moon, in the mist of her vapours entwined,
And night's dusky realm is suddenly rocked into quiet
With the low fallen hush of the wind.
First published in The Brisbane Courier, 7 December 1929
The rolling pasture-land slid green
On every side.
The Cape-weed with its golden sheen
Flaunts far and wide.
A depthless blue the floating sky! --
Day after day
The bird sing joyously; but I
Am far away,
Am far away from all the things
I love most dear --
Wet, sweeping sands and flashing wings,
Ships far and near;
Pale little Summer seas that break
In golden bays;
Salt-bitten secret flowers that break
Down windless ways!
I am far off! The old things call!
I dare not hear!
The sound of seas that break and fall
Rings in my ear
Like ghostly voices. Yet at night
In dreams I tread
Those beaches lying warm and bright,
Nor know them fled!
Pale tides and filmy flowers of foam,
White waters heap
Around me then .... I am come home
Only in sleep!
First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 6 December 1927
I had not thought to part so suddenly.
Old loves are sweet and new ones must be tried.
I had not found a fault, nor did my pride
Bid me beware even in secrecy.
Indeed, I hardly thought, so conscience-free,
Blossom should seed, seed fruit, and from my side
So dear a friend could go as one who died
Lang syne. And yet the rift was not through me.
I had walked on another hundred miles
With you-or thousand. I had been content
But to remain held in your close embrace,
I had not turned for any other's wiles.
It was your wish, November, that you went.
Can I be blamed December takes your place?
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 5 December 1938
Now when I think of quiet things
I think of gulls
With folded wings;
Of rain that winds on silver spools
In roadside pools;
And tall green-patterned jars that spill
The scent of roses
Sweet as spice;
And Sister Agnes
With her strings
Of wooden beads,
Her face as still
As pine-woods, and her hands
Moving like gentle doves
That fly
When evening comes o'er shadowy lands.
First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 4 December 1934
By giant boles, stemless and sapless,
Slow growth of the green centuries,
I look down the hill on the hapless
Defeat of the trees.
The jagged ranks sore and uneven.
The stark arms uplifted as though
Invoking an impotent heaven
To witness their woe.
For the loaf-mantled ridge and the rill-side
Do you think this bare pasture atones?
That seeming snowfall on the hill-side
Is but the white bones
Of the kings of the primitive forest,
Whose realm has long passed away.
Now heaped where the slaughter fell sorest,
And bleached in decay.
And the wind sees no sadder sight under
The leagues of the wandering sky,
Since it fled through the forest in thunder,
Or sank to a sigh.
Where the hill-side has long been a stranger
To the rush of its leaf symphonies,
And drought stalks, a dreadful avenger
In the wake of the trees.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 3 December 1938
The little gate of parting leads towards a frowning lane,
And white steps passing thro' the shade to garish light again
A lantern blowing in the wind, all haloed by the rain.
The little gate of parting leads to where the engine stands,
And on the dead face of the clock go round the mourning hands.
Oh, to turn my hour-glass back and stay the slipping sands!
The semaphore against the sky is like a gallows thing;
A flying fox among the trees breaks out on evil wing;
The grate of wheels is on the rail ... and out the long cars swing!
I cannot hear the birds to-day, nor see the sunny skies,
There is such aching in my heart, such sorrow in my eyes ...
And right across our way of love the gate of parting lies!
First published in The Lone Hand, 2 December 1912
When I walked back that well-known way last night,
I hardly knew the place. Friends I had owned
Had gone, and little lonely echoes moaned
About the spot that once their talk made bright.
Yet at my window I beheld a light.
And entering my room, some insect droned
As usual, some beetle black intoned
A lone familiar monody of flight.
I saw the instrument I often played,
The books I loved, the chair wherein I sat.
I dared to try a tune by memory led.
It had a sound of music that had strayed
From rhythm, lost, untutored, broken, flat....
I did not know till then that I was dead.
First published in The Australasian, 1 December 1923
