An Anthology of Australian Verse Part 26

The Sea

Ere Greece soared, showering sovranties of light, Ere Rome shook earth with her tremendous tread, Ere yon blue-feasting sun-G.o.d burst blood-red, Beneath thee slept thy prodigy, O Night!

Aeons have ta'en like dreams their strange, slow flight, And vastest, tiniest, creatures paved her bed, E'en cities sapped by the usurping spread Of her imperious waves have sunk from sight Since she first chanted her colossal psalms That swell and sink beneath the listening stars; Oft, as with myriad drums beating to arms, She thunders out the grandeur of her wars; Then shifts through moaning moods her wizard charms Of slow flutes and caressing, gay guitars.

To Poesy

These vessels of verse, O Great G.o.ddess, are filled with invisible tears, With the sobs and sweat of my spirit and her desolate brooding for years; See, I lay them -- not on thine altar, for they are unpolished and plain, Not rounded enough by the potter, too much burnt in the furnace of pain; But here in the dust, in the shadow, with a sudden wild leap of the heart I kneel to tenderly kiss them, then in silence arise to depart.

I linger awhile at the portal with the light of the crimsoning sun On my wreathless brow bearing the badges of battles I've fought in not won.

At the sound of the trumpet I've ever been found in thy thin fighting line, And the weapons I've secretly sharpened have flashed in defence of thy shrine.

I've recked not of failure and losses, nor shrunk from the soilure of strife For thy magical glamour was on me and art is the moonlight of life.

I move from the threshold, Great G.o.ddess, with steps meditative and slow; Night steals like a dream to the landscape and slips like a pall o'er its glow.

I carry no lamp in my bosom and dwindling in gloom is the track, No token of man's recognition to prompt me to ever turn back.

I strike eastward to meet the great day-dawn with the soul of my soul by my side, My goal though unknown is a.s.sured me, and the planet of Love is my guide.

Jennings Carmichael.

An Old Bush Road

Dear old road, wheel-worn and broken, Winding thro' the forest green, Barred with shadow and with sunshine, Misty vistas drawn between.

Grim, scarred bluegums ranged austerely, Lifting blackened columns each To the large, fair fields of azure, Stretching ever out of reach.

See the hardy bracken growing Round the fallen limbs of trees; And the sharp reeds from the marshes, Washed across the flooded leas; And the olive rushes, leaning All their pointed spears to cast Slender shadows on the roadway, While the faint, slow wind creeps past.

Ancient ruts grown round with gra.s.ses, Soft old hollows filled with rain; Rough, gnarled roots all twisting queerly, Dark with many a weather-stain.

Lichens moist upon the fences, Twiners close against the logs; Yellow fungus in the thickets, Vivid mosses in the bogs.

Dear old road, wheel-worn and broken, What delights in thee I find!

Subtle charm and tender fancy, Like a fragrance in the mind.

Thy old ways have set me dreaming, And out-lived illusions rise, And the soft leaves of the landscape Open on my thoughtful eyes.

See the clump of wattles, standing Dead and sapless on the rise; When their boughs were full of beauty, Even to uncaring eyes, I was ever first to rifle The soft branches of their store.

O the golden wealth of blossom I shall gather there no more!

Now we reach the dun mora.s.ses, Where the red moss used to grow, Ruby-bright upon the water, Floating on the weeds below.

Once the swan and wild-fowl glided By those sedges, green and tall; Here the booming bitterns nested; Here we heard the curlews call.

Climb this hill and we have rambled To the last turn of the way; Here is where the bell-birds tinkled Fairy chimes for me all day.

These were bells that never wearied, Swung by ringers on the wing; List! the elfin strains are waking, Memory sets the bells a-ring!

Dear old road, no wonder, surely, That I love thee like a friend!

And I grieve to think how surely All thy loveliness will end.

For thy simple charm is pa.s.sing, And the turmoil of the street Soon will mar thy sylvan silence With the tramp of careless feet.

And for this I look more fondly On the sunny landscape, seen From the road, wheel-worn and broken, Winding thro' the forest green, Something still remains of Nature, Thoughts of other days to bring: -- For the staunch old trees are standing, And I hear the wild birds sing!

A Woman's Mood

I think to-night I could bear it all, Even the arrow that cleft the core, -- Could I wait again for your swift footfall, And your sunny face coming in at the door.

With the old frank look and the gay young smile, And the ring of the words you used to say; I could almost deem the pain worth while, To greet you again in the olden way!

But you stand without in the dark and cold, And I may not open the long closed door, Nor call thro' the night, with the love of old, -- "Come into the warmth, as in nights of yore!"

I kneel alone in the red fire-glow, And hear the wings of the wind sweep by; You are out afar in the night, I know, And the sough of the wind is like a cry.

You are out afar -- and I wait within, A grave-eyed woman whose pulse is slow; The flames round the red coals softly spin, And the lonely room's in a rosy glow.

The firelight falls on your vacant chair, And the soft brown rug where you used to stand; Dear, never again shall I see you there, Nor lift my head for your seeking hand.

Yet sometimes still, and in spite of all, I wistful look at the fastened door, And wait again for the swift footfall, And the gay young voice as in hours of yore.

It still seems strange to be here alone, With the rising sob of the wind without; The sound takes a deep, insisting tone, Where the trees are swinging their arms about.

Its moaning reaches the sheltered room, And thrills my heart with a sense of pain; I walk to the window, and pierce the gloom, With a yearning look that is all in vain.

You are out in a night of depths that hold No promise of dawning for you and me, And only a ghost from the life of old Has come from the world of memory!

You are out evermore! G.o.d wills it so!

But ah! my spirit is yearning yet!

As I kneel alone by the red fire-glow, My eyes grow dim with the old regret.

O when shall the aching throb grow still, The warm love-life turn cold at the core!

Must I be watching, against my will, For your banished face in the opening door?

It may be, dear, when the sequel's told Of the story, read to its bitter close; When the inner meanings of life unfold, And the under-side of our being shows -- It may be then, in that truer light, When all our knowledge has larger grown, I may understand why you stray to-night, And I am left, with the past, alone.

Agnes L. Storrie.

Twenty Gallons of Sleep

Measure me out from the fathomless tun That somewhere or other you keep In your vasty cellars, O wealthy one, Twenty gallons of sleep.

Twenty gallons of balmy sleep, Dreamless, and deep, and mild, Of the excellent brand you used to keep When I was a little child.