I dreamed me of a little home
All set about with apple-trees;
Bees, and the honey on the comb.
And blackbirds' harmonies.
I dreamed me that at eventide
So red the homely hearth would glow
On snowy cloth, and wifely pride
Of dishes all a-row;
That little feet would pass the door,
And love would weave a circling band
To keep our happiness secure
As any in the land ...
Alas! for hopes of brittle glass,
For love's clear wine like water spilt,
The orchard close came not to pass,
The house was never built.
Now life has passed me by, it seems,
And I am growing, growing old.
How scant is my poor cloak of dreams
Against the Winter cold!
First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 2 August 1927
