Grass by Kathleen Dalziel

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Rippling leagues
   Of light unrolled, 
The grasses run
   To the sunset gold.

Run to the far earth's
   Edge indeed,
Starred and sprinkled
   With golden weed. 

Fine spun hollow,
   And height, and heap, 
A shallow ocean
   Knee deep, knee deep. 

A feathery forest,
   Fringed morass,
Oh, all the world is
   Nothing but grass. 

Nothing but beauty,
   And what can I
But dream as the dreaming
   Days go by?

Watching the golden
   Pageant pass
Over the seeding
   Summer grass.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 13 January 1934

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.  

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on January 13, 2014 7:20 AM.

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