Give me nor fame
Nor fortune. The same
Unto me praise
Or blame these days.
Good sleep, sound health,
I have true wealth.
A herb plot, a rose,
My own door to close.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 10 November 1934
Recently in Happiness Category
No sound was on the plain
But the stealthy drip of rain
In the tall, bleached thistle-spires,
And the wind a-thrum in the wires.
The road lay washed and bare
With a look of winter-sleep.
Nothing was moving there
But a trickle of dust-brown sheep.
And then out of the sky
At the end of the road there came
A butcher's cart that went lolloping by
Like a chariot of flame.
The wheels revolving spurned
The jagged ruts with pride,
And the butcher's boy, his face upturned,
Sang, swaying from side to side.
And the whole dim, desolate place
Bloomed into light and grace --
For here was the voice of very joy
Loosed on the lips of a butcher's boy.
First published in The Bulletin, 18 June 1947
Here from this cozy armchair by the fire
Each thing seems rare, and warm, and beautiful!
I can believe the crowded world all good;
Can think of happy people and the flowers,
Slender and sweet, from rich old garden-beds;
Of pictures and the smell of fresh-brewed tea
swimming in hollowed Wedgwood, and the sound
Of clicking spoons in saucers; and the drip
Of glowing ashes falling silverly.
Here God is very real, benignant, good,
A placid presence hovering around
The teacups with a large contended smile!
But I -- but I am sick to death of washed
Hypocrisies! This is not all, I know!
This is not all -- the shameful armchair lies!
I know that there are things unspeakable --
Dark, stinking streets with slimy gutters where
The children feed on filth, pale-eyed and wan;
And tottering houses where the drunken man,
Lustful and loud, kicks at his cowering wife;
And there are girls with weary feet who climb
Innumerable stairs -- pale girls who bend
Above long tables in a whir of wheels,
And pack unending tins day after day,
Day after day, where nothing ever comes;
And crowded wards of hospitals marked out
In beds -- white beds with faces o'er the sheets
Ravaged and torn beneath the lash of pain,
Frightful and hungry and malevolent!
And yet this cursed chair all softly sprung
Would have me think that it was otherwise!
First published in The Bulletin, 24 May 1923, and later in the same magazine on 3 July 1929.
I am too much alive to sing.
I want to shout and leap and fling
My laughing arms into the air
And dance on tip-toe everywhere.
With not a thought and not a dream,
I want to skip beside a stream
In Arcady, in Arcady,
And woo the wood-gods all to me.
I want to feel them chase me down
Among the grasses green and brown,
With many a mad and merry cry
Of Youth and Gladness ringing high,
Till reeling frolic, drunk with mirth,
Sinks to exhaustion on the earth.
In Arcady, in Arcady!
Tra-la-la-la, who catches me?
First published in The Bulletin, 7 February 1918;
and later in
The Lilt of Life by Zora Cross, 1918.
Aw, I'm sick o' the whole darn human race,
An' I'm sick o' this mundane ball;
I'm sick o' the sight o' me brother's face,
An' his works an' talk an' all;
I'm sick o' the silly sounds I hear,
I'm sick o' the sights I see;
Ole Omar K. he knew good cheer,
An' it's much the same with me.
Gimme a bit o' a bough to sit
Beneath, an' a book of rhyme,
An' a cuddlesome girl that sings a bit,
But don't sing all the time:
That's all I ask, an' it's only just;
For it's all that I hold dear --
A bough an' a book an' a girl an' a crust;
That, an' a jug o' beer.
Then I'll cuddle me girl an' I'll quaff me ale
As we sit on the leafy floor;
An' when the book an' the beer jug fail,
I'll cuddle me girl some more.
For jugs give out an' books get slow.
But you can take my tip for square
Tho' the bough an' the book an' the beer jug go,
The girl, she's always there.
For I'm sick o' the sight o' me brother's face,
An' the world's a sight too slow;
An' I'm sick o' tryin' to go the pace,
When there ain't no pace to go;
I'm sick o' the "gilded halls of vice,"
An' I'm sick o' the "sainted shrine,"
I'm sick o' me own an' me friends' advice,
An' the gold that won't be mine.
I'm sick o' the sound o' me fellow's voice,
I'm sick o' his schemes an' shams;
O' trying to choose when there ain't no choice,
An' of damin' several dams;
So, gimme a girl that ain't too slow,
You can keep your book of rhyme,
An' you bough an' bread an' your beer. Wot O!
An' I'll cuddle her all the time.
First published in The Gadfly, 18 April 1906;
and later in
The Bulletin, 21 August 1913; and
Backblock Ballads and Other Verses by C.J. Dennis, 1913.
Author reference sites: C.J. Dennis, Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library
See also.
Lo! I have sought thee, Happiness,
Beneath the sun,
Whose golden core doth Earth caress
Till day is done.
Where scintillating stars appear,
Breathing of thee,
As quivering in the vault of air
They seem to see.
And where pearl girdled proud Selene,
With queenly grace,
Climbeth the stairs of Heaven, serene
With smiling face.
And where in grove and woodland dell,
So sweetly meek,
Shy, drooping dew crowned violets dwell
Did I seek.
There at length I thee have found
In solitude,
Where but echoes soft resound,
Zephyr wooed.
And with books of hero lore
There thou art,
And the chaplets which they bore,
And my heart.
Happiness, I would not lose
Thou so dear;
All may find thee if they choose
Ever near.
First published in The Brisbane Courier, 14 May 1913;
and later in
Rustling Leaves: Selected Poems by Emily Coungeau, 1920.
Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography
See also.
Beneath the sun,
Whose golden core doth Earth caress
Till day is done.
Where scintillating stars appear,
Breathing of thee,
As quivering in the vault of air
They seem to see.
And where pearl girdled proud Selene,
With queenly grace,
Climbeth the stairs of Heaven, serene
With smiling face.
And where in grove and woodland dell,
So sweetly meek,
Shy, drooping dew crowned violets dwell
Did I seek.
There at length I thee have found
In solitude,
Where but echoes soft resound,
Zephyr wooed.
And with books of hero lore
There thou art,
And the chaplets which they bore,
And my heart.
Happiness, I would not lose
Thou so dear;
All may find thee if they choose
Ever near.
First published in The Brisbane Courier, 14 May 1913;
and later in
Rustling Leaves: Selected Poems by Emily Coungeau, 1920.
Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography
See also.
