Facing the dusty street,
All along the wall,
The foxgloves stand there dreaming,
Slender and tall,
Shaking their lovely bells
That float before they fall.
Shaking their lovely bells,
Lilac, white, and rose,
They lift their fretted linings,
And carelessly disclose
The cool green of their secret hearts
With every wind that blows.
Voiceless they dream all day,
But in the thick, dark hours,
Ghostly little chimings
Ring from their trembling towers --
An airy music far away
From tall, town-rooted flowers.
Sweet sounds of summer things --
The songs of latticed lanes
Are there behind that tinkling --
The creak of old hay-wains --
The trill of larks among the corn,
And the croon of English rains!
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 20 November 1937
