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
