Winter Eves by Zora Cross

| No TrackBacks
Who does not love on Winter eves to walk
   By leafy path and cool secluded way,
Where not one loiterer remains to talk
   Nor lyre-bird stays to play
With noisy murmur, when the leaf and stalk,
   Each in communion grey,
Tap no regretful legend to the past,
   Sing no distressful lay, nor shadow cast,
Nor sighing make for Autumn flown so fast?

I do. I love the silence of the hills,
   And the deep peace made browner by repose,
And the seed rustling underfoot that thrills
   My blood until it glows
With mellow memories that haunt the rills
   Running where Childhood blows
Her bubbles of reflection, still as cool
   As when we blew then with her after school,
With reeds for pipes, beside the swimming-pool.

Who does not love on Winter eves to walk
   Down gullies steep and valleys full of rest,
Where neither man nor Nature seems to balk
   The ease within the breast
While the oak flowers like powdered golden chalk
   Scatter for earth's old nest?
Who does not love these pleasures to command
   When the trees sleep like brothers hand-in-hand,
He has not known my love nor my dear land.

First published in The Sydney Mail, 26 July 1922

No TrackBacks

TrackBack URL:

About this Entry

This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on July 26, 2014 8:29 AM.

Hidden Valley by Myra Morris was the previous entry in this blog.

Brick Red Azaleas by Mabel Forrest is the next entry in this blog.

Find recent content on the main index or look in the archives to find all content.


Powered by Movable Type 4.23-en