The Carillon by Kathleen Dalziel

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The lantern of a late red moon,
   Swings down behind the trees;
That murmur some forgotten rune
   Of woodland harmonies;
With the stars above their shoulders,
   And the shadows round their knees.

And I am minded of an hour
   Far otherwise than this,
Where the almonds spilt a petalled shower,
   Shaken with too much bliss;
And all the earth broke into flower,
   And blossomed, at a kiss.

Along the fragrant, dim arcades,
   The dappled frescoes lag;  
And deep in creamy ambuscades
   A cuckoo deemed it day,
Trilling his wistful plaint of pain,
   Though all the world was gay.

Like bells half heard by summer seas,
   On airs of afternoon,
With all their tender memories,
   Old fancies keep atune;
Long dreams of you, and loveliness,
   And a half high summer moon.

For me no more enchantment weaves,
   A web of coloured spells,
Only this comfort I retrieve,
   From truth's deep hidden wells;
I still can keep my carillon
   Of memory's quiet bells.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 27 April 1929

Author reference site: Austlit

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on April 27, 2012 8:52 AM.

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