Poems

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POEMS

POEMS

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In the Surf

Here's an ocean ball-room, come with me and dance a measure, Trip it, where the little waves are quarrelling for pleasure, At our feet the rainbow bubbles make a sudden sally, Quick white foam-flowers bud and blossom in an emerald valley. Boldly an imperious wave sweeps your feet from under, Swings you to the right-about booming crystal thunder, Here a shower of melting pearl gems your floating tresses, While a sinuous emerald arm whelms you with caresses.

Softly twangs the great sea-harp, smit by airy fingers, In its song a haunting strain of siren sweetness lingers. Steel your heart against its lures, beware of its devotion, Dark and plumbless are the depths of this smiling ocean, Cold, ah! cold, their silences would break the heart within yon, Let them woo, these gallant waves, but never let them win you.

"What would you be, you breathing mite, in such a grasp titanic, Your very being overwhelmed in energies organic? You with your immortal soul, housed in its crazy dwelling, Your brain that weighs the stars the while its little hour is knelling. Get you to the shallows there, go frolic with the bubbles, They with you are truly kin, full of frothy troubles, Shining in an amorous sun, full of moment's laughter And vital force, then lost to sight, and after? after? after?

Are you, pray, allied to this great pendulum, that swinging From life to death, from death to life its fated hour is bringing? Or are you part of the Great Thought, that works unseen behind it, And shall you through aeons to come evolve—oh! never mind it, Turn you to the sun again, feel his touches tender, Dance among the crested waves, glorying in their splendour,

Take the great sea's briny kiss, like a lover loyal, Though he'd slay you—just as soon! his sepulture is royal.

In his glittering ballroom come with me and dance a measure, Where the wavelets run amok, delirious with pleasure. Dive into this emerald cave, foam-flags wave about it, Oh! the cruel, hurtling sea, I love it! love it! love it!

Revelation

Here, on this broad divan your dainty skirts were spread, Here is the dint made by your resting golden head, And yet, they tell me, O! Heart's Darling you are dead.

The daffodils I sent you, undismayed, Still stand like gallant sentinels arrayed In golden armour, surely they would shed Some of their beauty if another flower were dead.

Death! death! what is it? in this flower-filled room, Fragrant with your late presence and the flawless bloom Of living, soulless blossoms, can I stay my breath And by my very will invade your realm of death?

Where are you, Darling? The importunate air Vibrates with yearning, and incorporate I share The mystery that surrounds you. Down the steep Gold ladder of this sunbeam there shall sweep

Your naked soul, and clash against my own, Our very essences like flames together blown, And spirit into spirit fused in one ecstatic breath We shall triumphantly o'erleap this carnal gulf of death.

T feel a tremor in my soul, it senses unseen things, And from its chrysalis with pain puts forth imperious wings, Wings well equipped for rarer airs, and finer altitudes Where, at the very fount of life, no hint of death intrudes.

O! softer than terrestrial airs are these that round me blow, More luminous than suns of earth these happy planets glow, And, cleansed from its poor mortal scales my vision pierces clear The limitless expanses of this radiant atmosphere.

And as a seed deep sown in earth brings forth a living flower, My spirit bursts its husk of clay and wins its rightful power. Not vainly were our souls transfused with an immortal breath, And not in vain we test its power across this void of death.

Here are you, Darling, closer than the perfume to the rose, Than its music to the harp-string your living presence grows Into my being, and I feel, I know—O! God!—I see Across the barriers of sense, and through its mystery.

Now may the empty world revolve, and clay reclaim its clay, Now may the processes of time pursue their destined way, For, like a flash that stabs the gloom when the storm is at its height, My spirit in her agony has glimpsed a heavenly light, No more am I the fettered slave of my humanity, The secret of the Universe has been revealed to me.

Little Son

The days are passing, one by one, Through a shadowy door, Blithely we see them enter, They return no more.

Where do they go, and why, Out of our view? Little son, give me your hand, We're going too.

Some day—perhaps some night, No one can tell— We shall pass through that door, All will be well.

Pass from all yesterdays, That will be good, Then we shall understand, And be understood.

Death keeps that shadowy door, And one by one We shall pass through it, Dear little son.

Look at him steadily, With quiet breath, This keeper of the door, Mortals call Death.

Look at him steadily, Knowing it true That he only lifts the latch, We shall pass through,

Into a brighter day, Shielded from sorrow, The goal of every soul, God's great To-morrow.

A Protest

Oh! ye who blame Australia, Who tauntingly upbraid Her woods for lack of colour, Her trees that cast no shade,

Her birds that know no music, Her flowers without perfume, And the drear and ghastly phantoms That breed amid the gloom

Of spectral forests, gray and wild, Where crawls a shrunken stream, And weird, uncanny creatures Disport, as in a dream.

Oh! ye who draw such pictures, Whose spirits thus recoil, Are aliens! aliens!—Never one Is native to the soil,

For we, thine own, Australia— Bred of thee, blood and bone— We thrill responsive to thy voice, Answer thee tone for tone.

We find no lack of colour Where thy great forests spread Their burnished foliage, crested here With gold, and there with red.

For us the winds are laden With exquisite perfume, Delicate boronia scents, And breath of wattle-bloom.

Spices of white clover, That clusters at our feet, And airs from wild clematis stars Sun-warm and honey-sweet.

Leagues of red epaeris, And aromatic whiffs From myriad creepers blossoming About the broken cliffs.

And we have ears so fashioned That music seems to wake When mopokes, through the scented dusk Their soft indictments make.

Our spirits answer clearly When, liquid as a brook, That bubbles over golden sands, In some fern-fringed nook,

The laughing- jack salutes the dawn With clear and gurgling note, That falls, as if in silver drops, From his impetuous throat.

And parrots whistling cheerily, From green and rustling heights, And curlews wailing, wailing, Through long, quiet, brooding nights.

All speak to us in patois, That love alone imparts, And aliens cannot master The idiom of our hearts.

To us, when in the gloaming The drooping she-oaks sing Their low and plaintive music, What thrilling echoes ring!

What yearnings pent within us, What sweet, yet tragic strains Find voice in these Æolian harps, And tremble through our veins.

For us, the voice that murmurs From out the dark-tressed tree, In silhouette against the faint Sky's twilight mystery,

Is an imprisoned spirit, That whispers to our own Oh! softly, softly! as a dream, That visions the unknown.

For us, where 'mid the boulders, Strewn wide from cliff and scar, A hand's-breadth space of verdure Shines like an emerald star,

And lures a velvet footstep, A lissom form to spring All noiseless from obscurity, And browse, none hindering.

This life has all the beauty Of untamed woodland grace, We feel in it the naivete That permeates the place.

The charm of things unsullied, The luring mystery That lies in an unopened bud, A maiden's modesty.

A phantom thing, impalpable, That words may not reveal, The spirit of Australia That we Australians feel.

What think ye of our sunsets? Where have you ever seen Such crystal depths of amethyst, Such limpid seas of green.

What flower that ever budded On earth's enamelled breast Can match the magic blossom That opens in the west

And over fields of azure Its rosy petals sheds, And those untrodden pathways With golden pollen spreads.

Then fades in lovely pallors, To grays, remote and far, While from its withered calyx Springs up a living star.

Oh! ye who blame Australia, Who find her harsh and crude, And meaningless and gloomy, Oh! have ye never stood

Upon a plain, moon-lighted And limitless as thought, Where winds fall dumb, and languish As in enchantment caught,

Oh! have ye stood—I ask it, And in that silent place, Your soul, alone and naked, Regarded face to face.

Sing your own songs, Oh! aliens, Portray your native scenes, But let Australia's children Tell what Australia means.

Dumb Mouths

Think ye, that if the living crystal tide That leaps against the shore could only guess By what foul sewers it shall be mortified, How filled with death, and every loathsomeness, And could the tinted weeds that swing below The laughing bubbles at the bay's blue mouth Foresee the sickly, slimy things they grow When drawn to perish in the ebb-tide's drought, Could any life retain its vital force If it but knew the thing it shall become? Could the bold future step upon her course Were not the past so mercifully dumb?

Aha! the wisdom of the hooded eyes, Aha! the force that drives so blindly on. Here's to the silent mouth that utters lies, Here's to the dark that never says it shone!

What blossom fears to break its sheath of green Because of fallen petals in the dust? What fears to be, because so much has been, And is not, food for time's unfailing lust? What human heart restrains its passion thrill Because of other hearts that thrilled and died? Who falters as he climbs ambition's hill, Because the path leads down the other side? This is the bush that drugs creation's wine, This is the poppy fume of nature's breath Whereby she drowns, in lusty life, the sign Of ultimate and universal death.

And whereunto this zeal that never fails? And to what goal doth she so sternly press? What purpose is pursued, and what avails This endless stream of human nothingness? Ah! does the leaf that falls when it is meet Rebel? or do the parting atoms chide? Do withered moons remonstrate? or the feet Of ordered processes refuse to glide On their appointed paths because so soon They shall be but a road for others' tread? From all the long array of morn and noon And night, and seasons born, and seasons dead,

Has one voice cried resistance? Then shall thou Who only of created things can know Some glimmering sense of God, refuse to bow Submission? Fill thy little niche and go.

The New Year

Hush thy breathing for a minute, Tell me, can'st thou hear Music with a magic in it, Like a silver-throated linnet, Singing at thine ear?

Tis the new-born year awaking Every movement harmony, Like a wave melodious breaking, Or long she-oak tassels making Motion, melody.

For the great Creator stringeth, On the thread of Time, Years, like pearls, and each one ringeth Musical, then pendent swingeth, Rounded in a chime.

Close thine eyes to earthly seeming, Tell me, can'st thou see One with white robes softly gleaming, Stepping, from her sisters dreaming, Out to welcome thee?

'Tis the sweet New Year arising, Stretching forth her hand, Fresh from God, to thee devising Gifts well worthy of thy prizing Could'st thou understand.

For a mighty Monarch sendeth This ambassador to thee, From her open palm she lendeth To thy life as she descendeth Opportunity.

Keep this pearl from stain or breaking That it still may ring Musical, when God is making Of thy years a necklet, taking Only such as sing.

Take this sweet New Year, and greet her With an earnest hand, That, when fled, she may be sweeter, And thou need'st not fear to meet her In her native land.

A Poppy

Poppy! delicate and fine, Is it really true that you Are no better than a cheat Set among the golden wheat? That for all your lovely red You will never make us bread, That though with an elfin guile You have caught the sun's warm smile Captive for a little while There is no real use in you— Tell me, tell me, is it true, Poppy, delicate and fine?

When I lift your leaves apart And about your hidden heart See a dust of powdered gold, And beneath each shimmering fold Find a rarer, richer hue, Must I still maintain it true That there is no use in you, Poppy, delicate and fine?

When the summer days are spent, When the reaper's hook is bent, When is garnered all the grain, Shall men say you lived in vain? No, for, like a lovely thought In a blossom's semblance caught, Your own meaning you have taught. And I know, by Hope's eyes brightened By the weight of sorrow lightened, By a faith deepened and heightened, I know, I know it is not true That there is no use in you, Poppy, delicate and fine.

Twenty Gallons of Sleep

Measure me out from the fathomless tun That somewhere or other you keep In your vasty cellars, Oh! 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.

I've tasted all of your vaunted stock, Your clarets and ports of Spain, The liquid gold of your famous hock, And your matchless dry champagne.

Of your rich muscats, and your sherries fine, I've drunk both well and deep, Then, measure me out, Oh! merchant mine, Twenty gallons of sleep.

Twenty gallons of slumber soft, Of the innocent, baby kind, When the angels flutter their wings aloft, And the pillow with down is lined.

And eyelids droop over tired eyes, That never have learned to weep, And the soul, like a ship in harbour, lies Twenty gallons of sleep!

I have drawn the corks, and drained the lees Of every vintage pressed, If I've felt the sting of my honey bees, I've taken it with the rest.

I have lived my life, and I'll not repine, As I sowed I was bound to reap, Then measure me out, Oh! merchant mine, Twenty gallons of sleep.

Two Pathways

There is always a possible pathway, Until our hair turns gray, By which the dreams of our golden youth May really come some day, And there's always room for a fairy foot To flutter our own beside, And wish-horses, supple and strong enough To give our hopes a ride. There is always a possible pathway Until our hair is gray, By which our tardy heart's desire Shall sometime find its way. There is always a certain pathway By which, when our hair is gray, We may slip along into silence, And never miss the way. And the dreams we dreamed, and the fame we missed, And the love that we never won, May be gathered there, to welcome us, When at last the journey's done.

Love is Best

"You ask me for my love," she said; "your voice is full of passion, You woo me as a man should woo, in bold and earnest fashion. Not all the vows that I have heard of love and deep devotion Have stirred my heart to feel the least faint answering emotion; And I have said unto myself, 'No man has power to win me, Yet now I feel as if you touched some strange, new feeling in me, I cannot send you from my side with my accustomed coldness, I seem to fear—yet find a charm in your insistent boldness. And yet—Why should I yield my heart unto your passion's pleading? I hold it as a royal gift, some high requital needing. In days of old, such men as you fought for their lady's favour, And of their trophies, these, the best—their fame and honour—gave her.

Such days are o'er—brave days they were; yet life hath still some treasure That may be won, by those who will to forfeit ease and pleasure. You cannot buy my love with gold, nor with high power and station, I have them all—and light they weigh, in my soul's estimation. Yet I would fain that he to whom I give myself for ever, In bonds that neither Time nor Death itself shall dare to sever, Should have from Life some laurels won, have laid some claim to Fame, And carved on History's ample breast the letters of his name. There is no war in this new land, no field for brave endeavour To right the wronged, to free the slave, and win renown for ever, Yet Fame hath still some prizes left to give to those who love her, There are great tasks to overcome, new countries to discover;

There is a cry for such as you—men fit for Fortune's chances, To cross a new land and explore its wild unknown expanses. What if the way is hedged with toil, with hardship, and with danger? If hostile natives bar the way, and slay the invading stranger. What if the fate of former bands hangs like a doom above you, Succeed where others fail, if you indeed would have me love you. Push through your way where others pause, pluck laurels from their grave, And where brave men have failed and died, be braver than the brave. Then will I give you love for love, so would I test and prove you. And know that with my hand at stake, no craven fears can move you. And, that my promise I will keep, until you come, unbroken, This rose-red ribbon from my throat I give you for a token.

Bind it upon your breast, my knight, 'tis but a slender burden. Go forth and win—fear no defeat, my love will be your guerdon." He took the ribbon from her hand, he looked deep in her eyes, He said, "Your task is easy with so exquisite a prize, If this can win you, I will win, and yet I tell you clearly, Love does not ask of love a proof, won painfully and dearly, Ambition may allure, but never can it satisfy, And I will prove it, Love is best! and now I go—Good-bye!"

Oh, still the silent desert lies far in the unknown land, The sunlight like a yellow pall upon its burning sand. There is a beauty—strange, I own, in such a land as this, That those who prize earth's every form were surely loth to miss. A beauty not of swelling glades, and blossom-spangled swards, A beauty not akin to that a gentler land affords.

No mountain tops to pierce the sky, no valleys sweet with rivers, No shadowy haunt of fern and flower, where silver moonlight quivers; But something strange, and yet sublime, a wild barbaric splendour, With lines as harsh and tints as crude as Nature's brush can render. The level plain—a waveless sea—far as the eye can follow, Just broken there by soft grey blots of blue-bush in a hollow, And distant hills, as dim as dreams—a hazy blue illusion, That seem as if a breath of wind would waste them in diffusion; And 'mid the sterile stretch of stones, as from a mountain shattered, That lie just as grotesquely grouped as when they first were scattered, A sudden blaze of scarlet flowers, that bear Sturt's honoured name, As if the land had graven it upon her heart in flame;

A blaze of colour, rich and deep, on earth's swart bosom lying, Like one sweet thought in a dark soul, that conquers all denying, And over all a golden flood, a shadeless, shimmering ocean Of yellow light grown hazy with its own lost sense of motion. No sound of bird, no human voice to cleave the air asunder, But deep, profound repose that holds the soul spell-bound in wonder. In such a land as this, when day with folded amber pinions Died, like a king surrounded by his scarlet-coated minions, A man lay dying on the sand—his horse lay dead beside him Just where he fell—too weak to bear the man too weak to ride him. The last was he—one left alone—of the imposing band That started bravely to explore a wild and unknown land. One only left! And he, with eyes grown dim with wasting thirst, Watched the high dome of Heaven into a thousand beauties burst;

Saw snowy clouds flush tender pink, then glow with crimson fires; Saw the golden gates of that fair land that holds our hearts' desires. He saw them open, and a flood of radiant light stream out As if some angel presence beckoned those who stood without. He had gone forth, and dared and done what others failed to do; When others fled appalled, or fell, he had pushed his way through. "If to succeed is fame," he said, "I have succeeded well, Yet, could they speak, a sorry tale my bleaching bones will tell. My life is spent—no hallowed light will linger on my name; Yet I have done what I essayed. O! empty dream of fame That lives but by the breath of men. Alas! how vain a quest! Death comes; I welcome him. Dear heart! I knew that love was best!"

The shadows fell, that vast, still land held silently the dead, But on his breast love's token glowed—a warm and living red.

Dorothy Dancing

As the spirit of sound may dwell in a chord, And the spirit of thought be embalmed in a word, And the spirit of colour inhabit a rose, And the spirit of scent in its heart repose, So the spirit of motion lurks, graceful and Beet, In the exquisite moulding of Dorothy's feet. Dorothy dancing! Oh! think of the glancing Of Dorothy's dancing feet.

There are sweet flower-faces, and faces like flowers, There are laces in billows, and diamonds in showers, There are flocks of fans waving, like butterflies' wings, And with dreamy waltz music the pulsing air swings,

The violins sob, and the piccolos sigh, And the harp chords in thrilling love-measures reply, And it's all to greet The musical beat Of Dorothy's dancing feet.

They rise and fall and they fall and rise, And weave strange spells in my love-glamoured eyes, Like blossoms that flutter soft breezes before, They poise half an inch from the envious floor, Then the delicate points of her little bronze shoes Fall, light as the touch of night's moon-silvered dews, And the boards repeat The rhythmical beat Of Dorothy's dancing feet.

And they wind in and out, they flash to and fro, And tangle my senses wherever they go; I may lose my eyes, my ears, or my brain, I may never inhale a rose perfume again, But as long as my heart can remember to beat, It will echo the music of Dorothy's feet. Dorothy dancing! Oh! think of the glancing Of Dorothy's dancing feet.

A Song

There is no day When thou'rt away, No hour of these so fraught with pain. So full of gloom, But learns to bloom, Remembering thou wilt come again.

Oh! had'st thou heard How every bird Upon his bough has fallen mute, Nor can rejoice Till thy sweet voice Shall tune for him his silver flute.

And every star Hangs pale and far, And fears to face the sombre skies, Till like a sign, To bid them shine, Shall come the radiance of thine eyes.

But I can wait, Though thou art late, Because my heart is knit to thine; And neither days Nor severed ways Can make thee more or less than mine.

Miss Lintlocks

Miss Lintlocks sits where the morning sun Has woven a golden mesh, And the airs that pass across the grass Are tender, and sweet, and fresh.

Miss Lintlocks sings in a crooning voice, Like a wind through the water-reeds, Of the strangest things, of flowers with wings, And wonderful dancing weeds,

Of birds that talk, of clouds that make Soft pillows for little ones, And of sailing high thro' a purple sky All sprinkled with silver suns.

Miss Lintlocks smiles at her dimpled foot And nods at her tinted toes, Then slips the tips 'tween her parted lips And the point of her little nose,

For her knitted socks in the grass are hid And her shoes are, she knows not where; I fear, in sooth, to tell the truth That Miss Lintlocks does not care.

There are shimmering waves of greenest grass, There's a soft wind from the south, She surveys the skies with pensive eyes And her pink toes in her mouth.

Miss Lintlocks knows what the flowers think, She hears what the dust-motes say As they spin and dance in the golden lance That strikes through the shining day;

And the swinging leaves and the rosy halls Of the oleander tree— They flutler near to her little ear And murmur drowsily.

Miss Lintlocks sways, like a blossom bowed With a heartful of silver dew, And her song grows dim, and a fringed rim Sinks over her eyes' soft blue;

And the dimpled foot and the tinted toes Have slipped from her loosened hold, And lie like fair rose-petals there Across the green and gold.

Miss Lintlocks sleeps, and her tiny palms On the grasses lie uncurled; She is locked in a deep, sweet, childish sleep, Unspotted from the world.

My little bud in the sunny grass! My maid with the lint-white locks. God keep thy feet from the toils, my sweet, From thorns and bruising rocks!

I could see thy life in a mist of grief, I could bear thou should'st suffer pain, But I pray my breath may be held in death Ere I see thee with spot or stain.

God keep thine ears for the whispering leaves, Thine eyes for the bright sun-scroll, While thy heart is free for their ministry I'll fear not for thy soul.

The Opal in Her Hair

'Tis a witch-light that allures mo, 'Tis a star that beckons still, That deludes, then reassures rue, Sways me at its wanton will.

'Tis the pure white light of reason Shining far my heart above, Now, by some strange act of treason, 'Tis the crimson glow of love.

At its core strange beauties shimmer— Sunlight, moonlight, gloaming too; Reds that burn, and greens that glimmer Into shifting shades of blue.

Bright and bold as sword-blades clashing, Soft and sinuous as a smile, From her dark hair sudden Hashing To en-lave, command, beguile.

'Tis love's very spirit captured And imprisoned in a stone. The beholder, deeply raptured, Vows to win it for his own;

Vows with heart athrob to win it, Yields himself unto the snare Of the molten magic in it, Of the opal in her hair.

To a Mandolin

Oh! foolish little twittering mandolin Thrilling with emotions just as thin And flimsy as the ribbons, pink and blue, And amber-tinted, that envelop you. Oh! mimic passion, striking tinsel chords, Playing with earnestness, as children play with swords, Skimming across love's vast and unplumbed deeps, With flittering touches, as a swallow sweeps The surface of unfathomable seas, Her silken wing brushing immensities. Oh! heed thee, swallow! lest thou haply lose thyself, And the great sea thy little form engulf. Oh! heed thee, mandolin! lest o'er thy mimic woes, A wave of real passion sudden overflows.

Live Close to Nature

Live close to Nature, lean thou on her breast, She hath repayment, she hath help and rest. Thy day so poor, so meagre planned by fate, Take it to her and she will compensate, Stores deep and vast That will outlast The heaviest drain thy famine need can make She hath, and in her fulness thou thy thirst can'st shake.

This loud incessant clamour in thine ears, Life's myriad voices, laughter, shrieks, and tears Drown them in her sweet silence, steep thy soul In those rich spaces where the planets roll Their rhythmic swing Unfalterin From æon unto æon, while they fill The populous vault with silence thou too can'st be still.

Live close to Nature; when thy sudden thought All shuddering pauses, knowing thou art nought A breath—a vapour, when the warm live "me" So late rejoicing, sees Eternity Full-face, A breathing space,

And falters, when thou can'st not think of God, Think on the dear familiar earth His Mediator trod.

For thy poor heart was never meant to roam In such cold altitudes, this is its home Till, as a chrysalis bursts from its sheath And wins its wings, thou shalt some day through death Rise With franchise To larger spheres, but now for sanity Live close to Nature. She was made for thee

And fits thy needs. Bethink thee, with the curse Humanity was given this tender nurse, This bountiful great mother-heart that knows Of healing, in whose ample veins there flows Triumphant still The Omnipotent will That woke creation, and with vital force Renews the springs of being ever at their source.

Leave thou thy cities and their devious ways, That do but sear thy thought and warp thy days

In endless coils of custom, empty! vain! A seed of folly bearing sheaves of pain. Seek thou no more The world's false lore, But read this mighty volume writ for thee In royal characters on the impassioned sea,

On snow-capped mountains parleying with the sun, On dappled meadows where quick shadows run, On palmy isles in living azure set, On the moist bosom of a violet, Look Where a brook Slips into dimpled rest in some lagoon, And smiles a sleepy silver smile unto the moon.

Or linger where the moss is softly spread In quiet dells, the green towers overhead Agog with secrets, rumours of a breeze Of buds unsheathing, nesting mysteries, And poised as light As Saturn's might A harebell swinging on its slender stem, Think on these revelations, deeply ponder them