Incompatibility by Kathleen Dalziel

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My heart is like a hollow bowl
   Emptied of joy and pain.
The desert airs have taken toll,
   The parching droughts remain --
No stored-up vintage of the soul
   Comes brimming back again.

My heart is like a hidden shrine
   The worshippers forgot;
Long spilt the sacramental wine,
   The withered garlands rot --
No slender, starry candles shine
   Where sanctity is not.

My heart is like a shuttered door,
   A little empty room;
No chink of sunlight on the floor,
   No footstep in the gloom,
No voices breaking any more
   The silence of the tomb.

I think that it is better so.
   What use in bringing back
A lovely, tender thing to know
   The torture and the rack? --
The smallness you can not forgo,
   The greatness that I lack.

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 29 November 1927

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on November 29, 2014 9:24 AM.

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