Holy Ground by Kathleen Dalziel

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There is a way, in the mist-veiled summer valleys,
   Where the voice of the trees intones a muted psalm,
Where the tired torrent takes breath awhile and dallies 
   In a haven of leafy calm.

Where the sky is a roof of cloudy opal over
   The columned hills, and the air is sharp as wine,  
And the coral fern and the crimson bramble cover
   The bird-pool under the pine.

Little disturbs the peace there, and there by inches
   The noonday sunlight follows the winding path,
Till all the way is sunlight, and the finches
   Scatter their silver bath.

Where the moulding log retrieves her green with mosses,
   And the mountain myrtle leans up to bluer air,
And the wavering spray in a drifting rainbow crosses 
   The rifts of maiden-hair.

And memory weaves a charm about the bracken,
   For its earth made holy with sweetness overpast,
With the sanctity of our first kiss shyly taken,
   And the sadness of our last.

First published in The Australasian, 6 July 1929

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on July 6, 2014 9:34 AM.

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