Flowers by Zora Cross

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At even when the dusk is dewy-dark
   Over my garden, as pink twilight shakes
Bells of pure peace through sleeping leaf and bark,
   A dream of other blossoms softly wakes.

Ah, God! the flowers that I have seen go by
   In clouds of glowing color, red and gold --
Bright marigolds and daisies morning-shy,
   Verbenn, stock and hollyhocks night-old!

Blue flowers! The Brisbane River choked at morn,
   Thick with wild hyacinths, whose sapphire hands
Held in a flowery bondage, swampy-born.
   Steamer and ship that dared the blossomy bands!

Roses at Ayr, more pink than flowers of cane,
   Fluffily rosy as a baby's hair.
Redder than Delta twilights before rain.
   Softer than cosmos skies that gather there.

Flame-flowers! Great Indian cottons in the dusk
   Showering their blood beside a Macnade home,
Hiding the eastern houris of pure musk
   Within their hot, incarnadine bright foam.

Banksia! Golden, brown and ruby-red,
   Lining the gladstone creeks in bonfire-hues,
Staining the lilied waters with its dead,
   As sunset stains the skies quick evening wooes.

Wild bottle-brush! I gathered it last year.
   Bronze-red as temple censers at my door,
Where banners of bright cannas yellow-clear
   Shake their triumphant gold on Twilight's floor.

And, walking here at eve through dahlia-rows,
   By bowers of budding roses pink and red,
Memory her mantle of white magic throws
   And old flowers bloom for me in each new bed.

First published in The Bulletin, 18 May 1922

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on May 18, 2014 10:32 AM.

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