February 2014 Archives

The Corduroy Road by Kathleen Dalziel

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It curved by the foot of the cloud-crested mountain,
   It climbed by the edge of the tussock-grass plain,
By glens where the clematis fell like a fountain
   Of stars to the fern-gullies' fairy domain;
Through a wedge in the range where the waratahs blossomed,
   And the platypus shy had his watery abode,
Where the broken stream raced through a valley, deep-bosomed
   With myrtle and musk, ran the corduroy road.

The silver-white read, where the hoar frost was sprinkled
   Like diamond dust over culvert and crown,
When every archway with emeralds twinkled,
   And every fern-frond with crystal dripped down;
The green-bowered road, in the blue of the summer,
   When bright parrakeets in the gum-blossom glowed,
And the eaglehawk circled, a kingly far-comer,
   High over the heights of the corduroy road.

The corduroy road is a long-banished byway,
   For Progress, that spins at the wheel of car,
Has turned the lone track to a rolling broad highway,
   That's reeking of petrol and smelling of tar.
Though the young saplings lift where the summer lies sorest
   On bare, ringbarked paddocks where giants corrode,
They are not the old kings of the eucalypt forest
   That rose by the curve of the corduroy road.

Though the silver-white clouds are as kindly as ever,
   The blue of the morning as mistily deep.
No more the shy platypus plays in the river,
   No more the red waratah flames on the steep.
Long, long it is now since enchantment would take me
   By the hand to adventure the fern-trees' abode,
Yet memory stirs from her silence to make me
   A rhyme of regret for the corduroy road.

First published in The Bulletin, 28 February 1934

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.  

Blossoming Cacti by Mabel Forrest

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Dreaming of far-off deserts, in the murk
   Of hot and moonless nights in Brisbane town.
Each sap-filled leaf arrayed in spear and dirk,
   They look like stars themselves come drifting down
As slowly in the midnight garden pent
They wake to blossom through their discontent.

By day they close their eyes and lie asleep;
   The dust from street and road comes drifting in;
Who knows but in their hearts the cacti weep
   Green heavy tears for their long-sundered kin --
Flags of the Open Plain who own a world.
While theirs in narrow garden plots are furled?

On these hot nights I think they hear the wind
   Sigh through old memories, and the jackal slink
By the sand dunes some laggard prey to find;
   The scampering scorpion, in his coat of ink,
Threads in and out the glistening cacti-grove
To some mysterious rendezvous of love --

Seed of those other cacti. desert-bred,
   Offspring of some spiked hedge that spans the wild,
Remembering through those channels, parent-fed,   
   How the red dawn on desert acres smiled,
And how, across the long and burning sands,
Pale Evening came with comfort in her hands!

First published in The Bulletin, 27 February 1919

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Departure of the Swifts by Kathleen Dalziel

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High in the skies in thunder-wrath
I saw them muster and mill and swarm,
One and a thousand birds of a feather
Swirling about a mounting storm;

Disappearing and reappearing
Low in the shades, high in the sun,
Lost and found again where the rearing
Thunderheads melt and overrun;

Off -- and over the Bay's bright dimples
Rocketing (catch them if you can),
Soon to be circling round the temples,
Cities and shrines of old Japan;

Summering somewhere in far Cathay,
Feasting on steppes still further west
(It is whispered that some still know the way
To good Saint Brandon's Isle of the Blest.)

But, gone to glory or Timbuctoo,
Whether to Elfland or Avalon,
One and a thousand or two by two
The swifts but follow where summer has gone. 

First published in The Bulletin, 26 February 1958

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.  

Values by Zora Cross

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Values are only relative at best.
For a king's throne no bird would change its nest. 
The meanest street lamp to swift-moving cars 
Gives more intrinsic light than all the stars.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 25 February 1939

Ah Foo by Myra Morris

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Before his little shop stands old Ah Foo,
   Smoothing ms wrinkled hands, his yellow face
   Inscrutable; and in that noisy place
      Watches the heavy traffic rolling by
Under the great bridge-arches shadowed blue,
      To where the river masts prick all the sky.

Within the little shop of old Ah Foo
   Stand canisters of tea in green and red --
   Fat ginger-jars with lovely glazes spread;
      Old scarlet lacquer lids. and bits of jade,
Like pools at evening; shallow bowls of blue,
   And tall, black cabinets with pearl inlaid.

Watching the street, unmoving, stands Ah Foo.
   The flooded rice-fields stretch before his eyes!
   He hears the coolies' chants, remembered cries;
      Sees dim, lost places 'neath his gaze unfold ....
Then fumbles for the door, and shuffles through,
      And sits and feels that he is old -- so old!

First published in The Bulletin, 24 February 1927

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

The Valley of Flowers by Mabel Forrest

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A red feather he wore in his riding hat, and pointed riding shoon,
And the gold-chased hilt of his riding sword caught light front he afternoon;
And he leaned from his high saddle bow, and he held out his knightly hand --
"Have you been to the Valley of Flowers, or strayed into Flower-land?"
Then she put her empty pitcher down, and she looked at the moss-brown well,
Where village swains to the village maid had a homelier tale to tell;
And boorish louts seemed the village swains in the glare of the afternoon,
No bonny red feathers in riding hats, and no russet pointed shoon.
She was dimpled and soft, her heart was young, and her face was bright with youth;
She had heard of the legend of Flower-land, she wanted to test its truth;
So he set his gantlet against her waist for his was a knightly hand,
And thus they went, with his jet-black steed, on the journey to Flower-land.
Oh, swift was the journey to Flower-land, and easy the road to ride;
They crossed a plain that was hemmed with blooms, and they splashed thro' a silver tide;
The little waves sang at his horse's knees,and the pebbles gleamed below;
"But nothing is half as fair," quoth he, "as the valley to which we go."

So they watched her pass from the village street, and the old dames shook their heads,
And talked of flowers that turned to thorns, and of lying on self-made beds;
The whirr of the shuttles was stayed a space, for the girls forgot to spin,
Till the old men turned from the ingle nook to silence the old wives' din.
And the children coming home from school, with their small, impatient feet,
Tripped over the empty pitcher that stood on the cobbles of the street;
And the maids took up their spinning again, tho' they seemed but ill at ease,
For there came over a scent of flowers, borne back on the western breeze. 
And the days repeated their summer tale -- grey morn and gold afternoon -
But there never was gleam of sword-hilt bright, and there were no painted shoon;
And above the mists of the rolling downs, when the children were in bed,
And the sun was hiding behind he earth, no flash of feather red;
And sometimes a maid would stay her wheel, with an idle dreaming hand,
To wonder what they had found so fair to bind them to Flower-land.

One eve, when a storm hung black in the west, and the thunder muttered low,
And the peaks of the sea-girt far-off hills were red with the afterglow,
A will-o'-the-wisp came along the street from the mountains far and fair,
And a pale girl followed its wandering light with flowers in her hair.
So soft did she step thro' the grey storm dusk that they scarcely heard her feet,
Tho' she sought for an empty pitcher long in the narrow cobbled street;
And she paid no heed to the peering eyes, but she laughed and caught her breath
As she babbled of roses red as blood and of lilies white as Death.
And some said that she was a maid bewitched, and some spoke a bitter word;
And they jeered that she filled her pitcher now, but she neither went nor heard;
"She went a-weaving with flowers," they gibed, "and for fairy flax to spin;
Now she seeks for her shattered pitcher to set her rare dream-blossoms in!"
Then a white maid leaned from her lattice out, "Nay! jest not with the dead;
She has stayed too long in Flower-land," the wise white maiden said.

First published in The Australasian, 23 February 1907

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Journey's End by Kathleen Dalziel

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Heart, shall I find you again when I go travelling far
The road of the silver rain, by the light of a lantern star,
To the realms of the rainbow's end, on the molten path of the moon?
For I travel that way, my friend -- I am starting the journey soon.

For Death was never the goal (else we had been cheated sore)
Where the waters of Time's sea roll on white Eternity's shore.
And Love is stronger than Life, or never the world goes round;
And there's peace at the end of strife when the Hills of Home abound.

For coming am I at last, with a heart for the journey strong
To carry me far and fast, wide, wonderful wastes along --
All of the long regretting, all of the loneliness past,
To an endless day's forgetting, I am coming to you at last.

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 22 February 1927

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.  

Flower-Dance by Myra Morris

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The white lady lilies
   Dance a minuet,
Dropping stately curtseys
   Where the lawns are set.

Silken-frocked godetias,
   Under Summer's spell,
Twinkling in the sunshine,
   Spin a tarantelle.

Blowsy scarlet poppies,
   Flaunting every frill,
In among the grasses
   Whirl a wild quadrille.

The wind has led their frolics,
   Tapping seeded drums,
Singing, "Dance your blithest --
   Old Man Autumn comes!"

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 21 February 1928

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

The Stolen Day by Zora Cross

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This lovely golden little summer day 
I simply took and blithely stole away.
If theft of Time be stealing precious hours,
And squandering them like garlands of pluck't  flowers.
I was a thief this golden little day -- 
This lovely little day I lazed away.

Oakflowers were blown on every happy hill 
Parrots sped by me at their own wild will. 
And I as free, moved leisurely along
Singing myself a careless gipsy song; 
And wilful still in unrepentant rhyme
I hid the little day I stole from Time.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 20 February 1939

Snapdragons by Mabel Forrest

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They are women with a secret, these snapdragons,
That is why they shut their mouths so tight
That every man may know
By the haughty way they go
They have something worth the telling to a wight!

Tenderly I prise them open -- find the tongue is all of gold,
Surely, 'tis the tongue of poets, mellow in a story old,
Some fair runs of morning meadows, lit with many golden flowers
That the wizard sun has made us from the silver of the showers!

See them in their velvet bonnets, very modest and demure,
But I hold their shy demeanor just a cunning form of lure --
Yonder bloom is striped and fluffy as the skirts of a Pierette
Lifted on a curve of beauty sly Pierrot will not forget!

Here is one all soft and creamy as a bride in langorous hours --
They are women....they are poets....and they, best of all, are flowers!

First published in The Bulletin, 19 February 1914 

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Home-Sick by Zora Cross

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Sydney, dear old companion,
   With your kind face to the sky,
With your spires and domes and columns
   By the waters cool and shy,
I have loved your light robes trailing,
Through the sea of beauty sailing,
   But to-night I want to cry.

There's a little northern steamer
   Going chugging from the bay;
There's a laughing line of water
   All along the Barrier way;
And it's calling me, and calling,
All its echoes softly falling
   Rich with spices of the spray.

There's a sleepy mob of cattle
   Coming slowly from the West;
And the horses of the drovers
   Seem hoof-dead from want of rest;
But my soul amid the gleaming
Of the happy sunlight's streaming
   Woos the bushland to my breast.

Oh, I want the clean, green Northland,
   Want the singing, swinging tread
Of the everlasting freedom
   Where the sun and air are wed!
Oh, I want the rivers sweeping
And the sleepy sea winds creeping
   Over palmy cape and head.

Sydney, dear old gay companion,
   Hemmed by walls from liberty,
Shut from meadow, farm, and station.
   And their wildness, loose and free!
Dear old mate with memories thronging,
You can understand the longing,
   You were once but scrub and sea.
First published in The Sydney Mail, 18 February 1920

Our Answer by Mabel Forrest

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You can see it in the city, when the crowds go slowly by,
You can read it in the stern-set mouth, the calm, defiant eye;  
O'er half a world has come to us a message from the foe --  
"Oh! not to Victory, but Death your gallant sons shall go."
Do we fear? We who have wrestled with the drought and flood so long,
No! We answer with defiance, and this is our battle song
"We are fighting with the Heart, and not only with the Hand;  
We are fighting for the glory of our dear old motherland.
   Do you think there's one among you,
      One among your stubborn Dutch,
   Who has gauged the strength of Britain
      When you doubt the power of such? 
   Oh! laugh among your stony hills,
      And triumph while you may,
   We can hear you call for mercy,  
      At the closing of the day!"
Australian women send to you, this answer o'er the sea
"From the dark page where you write 'Death' we still spell 'Victory'!"

First published in The Brisbane Courier, 17 February 1900

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Fairies by Zora Cross

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Betty knew, of course, that there were fairies everywhere,
Round about the garden paths, and in the pleasant air;
So, when she was running homeward through the bush from school,
And picked up a shilling by the bracken gully cool,
Betty clutched it tightly and ran fast along, 
Singing to herself a very little fairy song.
Betty met Depression near a giant old red gum --
Mum and Dad and children three, all looking rather glum.
Betting gave the shilling to the littlest of the three,
Who was trying lo be good, as good as child could be.
Then she knew the fairies really had been out that day.
What the fairies give to you you always give away.  

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 16 February 1935 

I Remember by Kathleen Dalziel

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On whispering dusky eves, how I remember --
   Remember you!
Star-dusted nights of Summer-crowned December;
   Long days of gold and blue;
The flame that leapt, the flame that feel to ember;
   The false heart -- and the true!

No buds like those in that enchanted garden!
   Ne'er sprang to view
More splendid castles, scorning leave or pardon;
   Above forbidden faery lands of blue!
Against old realms of dream my heart must harden
   When I remember you.

The garden close is choked with rusty sorrels,
   No castles mount anew.
Tall waves the weed o'er buried hopes and quarrels --
   Long is the old love banished for the new.
But when the south wind stirs the camphor-laurels
   How I remember you!

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 15 February 1927

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.  

The Wind by Mabel Forrest

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A trellis carefully planned and painted;
   A guarding wall where a creeper swings;
A palisade where the red beans clamber --
But the wind comes there, for the wind has wings;
   There is no defence it cannot climb over,
For the wind is brave as the boldest lover!

You can fasten the latch of your leaden window,
   You can turn your eyes from the cloud-flecked blue,
But the voice of the hills will find you heeding
   And the wind will rattle the bolt for you!

You may shut your ears to the muffled pleading
   Your heart as a folded bud may make,
But the wind is tossing the flowers together
    And the wind will hustle your hear awake!
There is never a wall they cannot climb over --
A fearless wind and a faithful lover!

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 14 February 1928

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

The House with the Tiled Roof by Myra Morris

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The house with tiles along its roof,
   Has dragons crouching at the doors,
That upward gaze in mild reproof,
   And parquetry verandah-floors.

Bright purple flames of flowers blaze
   Across the whiteness of its walls,
And dappled little garden-ways
   Are glimpsed from glassy, curtained halls.

Yet here I languish touched with pain,
   A wandering spirit, lost, aloof,
Because I cannot hear the rain
   Beating at night upon the roof.

Outside, the dark flows vague and wide,
   The world in tingling storm is drowned;
Yet lapped in peace I lie inside
   And hear no single breath of sound.

There was a tiny house I knew, 
   With roof of ugly, rusted tin,
And blackened chimneys all askew,
   Where, dancing out, and dancing in,

The rain with dusty odors fraught,
   Would croon a song of freshened things;
And I remember how it brought
   Contentment on its silver wings.

On thinking back I sleep again
   Beside the stirless billabong,
Hearing on tented roof the rain
   Drum with a muffled litre song.

Hearing above the grieving sky,
   Above the moaning of the sea,
The black swans flute as they owing by
   Unto some bourne of mystery!

So wrapped in silence, rainsong-proof,
   Rearing with pride each splendid room,
The house with tiles along he roof
   Is nothing but a prison-tomb.

First published in The Bulletin, 13 February 1929

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

To a Flirt by Mabel Forrest

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Yes! You have broken a heart; 
   Take it and throw it away, 
Do with it then as you may-- 
Yours will not suffer the smart.

Perhaps you have done it before-- 
   Trifled with one for awhile, 
   Thrown it aside for a smile, 
Stretching your hands out for more.   

Hearts are not found every day, 
   Counterfeits flourish indeed; 
   This in its passion can bleed; 
Genuine! so toss it away. 

But that was an honest man's heart, 
   Worthy some good woman's love, 
   Not to be worn like a glove, 
Petted, and riven apart. 

Deem you he counted the cost-- 
   He, who was wholly a man? 
   Make up to her if you can-- 
The woman who doubly has lost. 

Think of eyes tearful and dim, 
   Searching the mesh of your toils; 
   Think of the lives this sport spoils, 
And the woman who's waiting for him!

First published in The Queenslander, 12 February 1898

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Love by Kathleen Dalziel

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Swift as the crumpled hood
   Of the young poppy is smoothed to sudden flame
In some brief hour, ecstasy in full bud,
   Unheralded, unknown, Love came.

Brief, brief as the short life
   Of the paper-petalled Himalayan rose,
Whirled into nothingness on winds of strife,
   Wept, prayed for, so Love goes.

The rose and the burning poppy's fold,
   The Summer and all bright madness must depart,
Yet even loss has left some pollen gold
   Of memory in my heart.

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 11 February 1930

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.  

The Naked Muse by Zora Cross

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The muse of late has grown so bare,
Her naked limbs clothed but in hair
That flows about her naked knees
As she lies swooning under trees.
Or sliding naked down the night
Upon a flake of fairy light.
Or wandering naked by a pool
In evenings old, remote and cool,
That reading through her lines it seems,
Between her naked thoughts and dreams,
Her verse is so divinely bare
Of everything, there's nothing there.

First published in The Bulletin, 10 February 1921

Wandering Blood by Myra Morris

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I am the child of the wind and the sea,
The sport of the long, straight rain;
And the wild, wet breeze from the roaring south,
And the creaming tide in the harbor-mouth
Shall never call me in vain.
The East calls and the West calls,
From the skies that touch the plain;
And my feet are hot for the roads that take
The empurpled wastes where the rainbows break,
Where the foxes bark and the wild birds wake,
And the bracken browns on the hill.
Ho, ho, for the scud in the wintry morn;
Ho, ho, for the sleet and the clouds all torn!
Heigho, for the tempest's thrill!
The rain calls and the wind calls,
And my feet are never still!

For my fathers came from over the sea,
And their wandering blood runs red in me;
And as long as there's salt in the windy South,
And the fresh tides cream in the harbor-month,
As long as the sap sings sweet in the tree,
The wanderer's heart shall beat in me!

Deep in the womb of the blossoming earth
No grave could imprison me;
For I'd hear the drone of the sea-winds pass,
And I'd breathe the scent of the sun-warmed grass,
And Death should set me free.
O green day, O glad day.
I should wake to bird and tree;
And I'd steal where the waves broke clear and cold,
And shake out the dust from each white grave-fold,
And untie my hair on those sands of gold
Where the pig-face trailed to the deep!
And, oh, none should know that the dead ran wild
And danced with the bees on the cliffs gorse-tiled,
And danced on the windy steep!
The mad earth, the glad earth
Would never let me sleep!

For my fathers came from over the sea,
And their wandering blood runs red in me:
And as long as the ti-tree boughs are stripped,
And the magpie trolls in the eucalypt --
As long as the seagull calls from the sea,
The wanderer's heart will beat in me!

First published in The Bulletin, 9 February 1922

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

From the Past by Mabel Forrest

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Why should I grieve for you? Voice unavailing, 
Waking the past with its pitiful wailing;
Why should I grieve for you? Weakest of all, 
You, who have fallen as such only fall.

Life gave to you strength, to be wasted and played with;
Life gave you a Fate that you were not dismayed with;
Life treasured a woman's heart, warm for your sake;    
And now it is broken-as such only break.

You rise from the past, insistent, compelling;
Ah! for the tale that brings tears in the telling.
Do I care? Do I look for your home-coming yet?
You who have forgotten, as such men forget?

First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 8 February 1905

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Happy Song by Zora Cross

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I am too much alive to sing.
I want to shout and leap and fling
My laughing arms into the air
And dance on tip-toe everywhere.
With not a thought and not a dream,
I want to skip beside a stream
In Arcady, in Arcady,
And woo the wood-gods all to me.

I want to feel them chase me down
Among the grasses green and brown,
With many a mad and merry cry
Of Youth and Gladness ringing high,
Till reeling frolic, drunk with mirth,
Sinks to exhaustion on the earth.
In Arcady, in Arcady!
Tra-la-la-la, who catches me?

First published in The Bulletin, 7 February 1918;
and later in
The Lilt of Life by Zora Cross, 1918.

The Palmist by Mabel Forrest

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I crept along a narrow lane as quiet as a mouse,
   And up a dark and creaking stair into the Palmists' house.
Across the door a curtain hung, mysterious in its fall,
   A criminal's and a Prince's hand were pictured on the wall.
The greasy cards the table held, the worn and dingy chair,
   The cracked pane in the window and the single gas jet's flare.
How well do I remember it! and how I tried to hide
   My foolish laughter, lest I wound the prophetess's pride.

The Palmist took my hand in hers and heavily she traced
   A line or two, and then she said "Beware a trust misplaced."
I trembled, for it seemed so real, in that malodorous gloom,
   While she and I sat face to face within the sordid room,
And in the moonlit world outside, I heard pass to and fro
   Your footsteps as you waited in the dreary lane below;
While from the city came the whirr of trams, and din of strife,
   I heard as in a dream, her voice reveal my future life.

What did she promise? Many friends and money, health, and fame,
   And in the web of Fate she wove no mention of your name;
Yet, strange that I should deem to-day that t'was your heart she traced
   When murmuring o'er my tender palm, "Beware a trust misplaced."

First published in Steele Rudd's Magazine, 6 February 1904

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Plane at Night by Myra Morris

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Suddenly now the sky, that silent place
Has sound --
A single note, unwavering, profound, 
Droning through endless space
And nosing through the hollow wastes of night,
Invisible save for one dim, golden light
That moves among the stars, a star in flight.
A plane goes overhead.

O small, lone thing that flies
Through black illimitable skies
Unshaken by the wind's tumultuous tread,
Knowing your secret end you go 
Steadfastly through the night,
While we who have no final aim in sight,
Stumble in circles down below!

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 5 February 1944

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

A Song of Mother Love by Zora Cross

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[After reading Lissauer's "Song of German Hate," "Brisbane Courier." February 1.]  

German and Turk, you matter not, 
Not a blow for a blow, not a shot for a shot, 
We love you now, we hate you not,
We hold the land and the seaward gate.   
We love as one, we fight as one, 
We have one mother -- one alone.

She is known to you all, she is known to you all,
She watches behind the storm and the flood, 
Full of pity and power and might, of all     
Compassionate love in bone and blood.     
Go! Stupid ye at the Judgment place,     
We'll meet you surely face to face.
Your oath of bronze we will not shake. 
Why! Keep it for your Kaiser's sake!      
But hear this word ! We shout the word!   
Through all the Empire is it heard, 
We will never stoop to hate,  
We love as one, we fight as one, 
We have one mother -- one alone,

In town and city, field or hall,
Wherever the lilt of a breeze can fall.  
Like a leaf of prayer-like the song of a sail,   
The children lift their hands and hail,
Close clipped like the clash of a trumpet's play,     
And shut, "Welcome! " thro' the livelong day.      

Whose be the Fate ?
They have not a single hate. 
Who is thus known ?  
They have one mother -- one alone,

We want not the folk of the earth to pay.  
We want not gold where the ramparts lay.     
We ride the ocean with bow on bow,
We reckon well -- for we reckon you now.   
German and Turk, you matter not,    
Not a blow for a blow, not a shot for a shot. 
We fight the battle with love for weal, 
As you will know when Peace we seal,     
For we can love without lasting hate. 
Love can forego the fiercest hate, 
Love of water and love of land, 
Love of head and love of hand,
Love of hammer and love of crown,
Love of a myriad millions marching down,   
We love as one we fight as one.
We have one mother -- one alone,

First published in The Brisbane Courier, 4 February 1915;
and later in
A Song of Mother Love by Zora Cross, 1916.

Note: you can read Lissauer's original poem here, and the article that Cross read in The Brisbane Courier here.

Last Night by Mabel Forrest

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Which way did you come? Not by the stair,
But through some ladder of light and air.
Perhaps you swung to the moonflower's disc
By a clinging tendril, and took the risk
Of a moonray's dirk on the balcony
To leave the darkness and climb to me?

Which way did you come? As a trembling ghost,
Your footfall lost in the high wind's boast
As he clapped the boughs of the weeping figs
To an eerie chorus of clashing twigs,
As he bent the grass in the gardens low
To smooth the way for a ghost to go?

How did you signal? In my soul?
Or break through my heart's demure control?
Did you prise the locks of the world apart
To carve a road to a guarded heart?
Did the drawbridge rise when the time was ripe
To the quick command of a fairy pipe?
Did you come, a prince in your jewelled state--
Did you come as a palmer, desolate?

Which way did you come? Who can ever guess?
But your hand on my hand still seems to press
And I turn my pillow, to find again
The little hollow where love has lain.

Through slatted windows a cool sun streams
And the dreams of the night are....only dreams.
Like butterfly blown o'er a desert place
Its wings still wet from a flower's face,
O star that sought for its heaven here,
A hope too wild, for a gift too dear.

Yet, though doors were closed to a mortal's key,
I know last night that you came to me.

First published in The Bulletin, 3 February 1916

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Sonnet by Zora Cross

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Think not but that I miss you still, though Time 
Bids me to welcome in your rival now
With many a bud and blossomy fragrant bough 
Whose every colour mates in perfect rhyme. 
I am not fickle, nor count it a crime
To change my loves, and feel upon my brow 
Another's kisses, since you taught me how
To bear your loss the less I felt your prime. 
So let me gather the new garlands in,
And deck the hearth, and go my flowery way, 
And, since it seems I must, let me still sing. 
To love again so soon can be no sin,
Since all too soon you chose no more to stay, 
Winter, and left my heart vacant for spring.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 2 February 1937

The Holiday by Mabel Forrest

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To-day they hang gay bunting o'er the town,
   Here scarlet from an open window flies,
To make a holiday for toil-sick eyes
   It flutters down.

Sun on the road, and bright flags overhead,
   Shrill laughter from the jostling crowd below,
The town is merry-making; just as tho'
   She was not dead.

First published in The Lone Hand, 1 February 1913

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

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