An Anthology of Australian Verse Part 32

--our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness (was it trees? or a shadowy pa.s.sion the pain of an old-world longing that it sobb'd, that it swell'd, that it shrank?) --the gloom of the forest blurr'd soft on the skirt of the night-skies that shut in our lonely world.

...not here...in some long-gone world...

close-lock'd in that pa.s.sionate arm-clasp no word did we utter, we stirr'd not: the silence of Death, or of Love...

only, round and over us that tearless infinite yearning and the Night with her spread wings rustling folding us with the stars.

...not here...in some long-gone kingdom of old, on her terrace at evening O, folded close to her heart!...

Poppies

Where the poppy-banners flow in and out amongst the corn, spotless morn ever saw us come and go

hand in hand, as girl and boy warming fast to youth and maid, half afraid at the hint of pa.s.sionate joy

still in Summer's rose unshown: yet we heard nor knew a fear; strong and clear summer's eager clarion blown

from the sunrise to the set: now our feet are far away, night and day, do the old-known spots forget?

Sweet, I wonder if those hours breathe of us now parted thence, if a sense of our love-birth thrill their flowers.

Poppies flush all tremulous -- has our love grown into them, root and stem; are the red blooms red with us?

Summer's standards are outroll'd, other lovers wander slow; I would know if the morn is that of old.

Here our days bloom fuller yet, happiness is all our task; still I ask -- do the vanish'd days forget?

John Le Gay Brereton.

The Sea Maid

In what pearl-paven mossy cave By what green sea Art thou reclining, virgin of the wave, In realms more full of splendid mystery Than that strong northern flood whence came The rise and fall of music in thy name -- Thy waiting name, Oithona!

The magic of the sea's own change In depth and height, From where the eternal order'd billows range To unknown regions of sleep-weary night, Fills, like a wonder-waking spell Whispered by lips of some lone-murmuring sh.e.l.l, Thy dreaming soul, Oithona.

In gladness of thy reverie What gracious form Will fly the errand of our love to thee, By ways with winged messengers aswarm Through dawn of opalescent skies, To say the time is come and bid thee rise And be our child, Oithona?

Home

"Where shall we dwell?" say you.

Wandering winds reply: "In a temple with roof of blue -- Under the splendid sky."

Never a n.o.bler home We'll find though an age we try Than is arched by the azure dome Of the all-enfolding sky.

Here we are wed, and here We live under G.o.d's own eye.

"Where shall we dwell," my dear?

Under the splendid sky.

Wilfred

What of these tender feet That have never toddled yet?

What dances shall they beat, With what red vintage wet?

In what wild way will they march or stray, by what sly paynims met?

The toil of it none may share; By yourself must the way be won Through fervid or frozen air Till the overland journey's done; And I would not take, for your own dear sake, one thorn from your track, my son.

Go forth to your hill and dale, Yet take in your hand from me A staff when your footsteps fail, A weapon if need there be; 'Twill hum in your ear when the foeman's near, athirst for the victory.

In the desert of dusty death It will point to the hidden spring; Should you weary and fail for breath, It will burgeon and branch and swing Till you sink to sleep in its shadow deep to the sound of its murmuring.

You must face the general foe -- A phantom pale and grim.

If you flinch at his glare, he'll grow And gather your strength to him; But your power will rise if you laugh in his eyes and away in a mist he'll swim.

To your freeborn soul be true -- Fling parchment in the fire; Men's laws are null for you, For a word of Love is higher, And can you do aught, when He rules your thought, but follow your own desire?

You will dread no pinching dearth In the home where you love to lie, For your floor will be good brown earth And your roof the open sky.

There'll be room for all at your festival when the heart-red wine runs high.

Joy to you, joy and strife And a golden East before, And the sound of the sea of life In your ears when you reach the sh.o.r.e, And a hope that still with as good a will you may fight as you fought of yore.

Arthur H. Adams.

Bayswater, W.

About me leagues of houses lie, Above me, grim and straight and high, They climb; the terraces lean up Like long grey reefs against the sky.