The Little Things by Kathleen Dalziel

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The little things old Time has turned to ashes,
   Fair aspirations and high-sounding hopes;
But even now I see the scarlet flashes
   Of lowries winging through the leafy slopes

Ere summer set brown hands upon the bracken.
   And I recall the midnight breeze that drew
Tree music from tall boughs till, faintly shaken,
   It seemed a million starts were murmuring, too.

And card castles of dream old Time has tumbled
   To all the winds and left of harvest the husks;
But I like to think of how the river stumbled
   Across the stones in silver summer dusks.

It seems I have forgotten small hells and heavens,
   Praise, blame and Love's once precious-seeming words.
But I remember quiet autumn evens,
   Leaves dropping, and the small talk of the birds.

The solid things, dissolved in dust and scattered,
   Deep-rooted things, uprooted, branch and stem.
But the little things, that once so little mattered,
   How strange it is that I remember them! 

First published in The Bulletin, 28 June 1933

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on June 28, 2014 8:51 AM.

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