Old Sundays by Kathleen Dalziel

| No TrackBacks
Ah, those sweet old Sundays, walking to the meetings,
   Through the homestead paddocks, across the fescue grass;
Summer down the rutted tracks, neighbours' smiles and greetings,
   Glimmering in my memory like clear-spun glass!

Deep the sleepy golden light along the valley glowing;
   Deep in lush green herbage the cattle stood at ease,
Lifting up their lustrous eyes to watch our going,
   Underneath the dappled red and russet of the trees.

Then my frilly frock would sweep its thick white clover,
   Then my mop of brown hair had a scarlet ribbon tie;
All the bush birds whistled us, over still and over,
   Tags and snatches of the joy of earth and air and sky.

Through the open window a lost bee blundered,
   Cooler grew the shadows with the closing hymn.
"Will he see me home to-night, wait for me?" I wondered,
   When behind my mother's back I used to smile at Jim.

Heigh-ho for lads' love, the old times are over!
   Still on summer dawnings, when the light is breaking dim,
Often I will wonder, when the wind blows off the clover,
   Where is she that once was I, and what's become of Jim?

First published in The Bulletin, 20 October 1927

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

No TrackBacks

TrackBack URL: http://www.middlemiss.org/cgi-bin/movabletype/mt-tb.cgi/2833

About this Entry

This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on October 20, 2014 7:29 AM.

The Early Coach by Mabel Forrest was the previous entry in this blog.

Fairy Music by Myra Morris 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