The Valley by Kathleen Dalziel

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As I look down the valley, these sleepy summer days,
Its bowl is overbrimming with a fine blue haze, 
And through the sunshot dimness the parrots dart and twist,
As painted fishes flick about a pool of amethyst. 

The river, running summer-low among the summer reeds,
Lies along the valley like a glimmering string of beads;
Soft-foot and slowly, she runs, her green pools glassing
The feathery ranks that scarcely stir to motion at her passing.

Here, where the shining leaves reflect a thousand suns,
All day long the bell birds toll their sylvan carillons;
Airy chime and change again, silver clear and strange,
Fairy anvils ringing in the fastness of the range.

Fairy anvils faltering and dying out away,
Where sunset is a glory round the rosy death of day;
And all along the valley evening gathers up
All the early darkness in her cool dim cup . . . 

Time has gleaned so many joys and dried so many tears,
And I only see the valley now across the mist of years.
Twenty years from Melbourne Town, and close to Avalon,
In the glory of the valley in a summer that is gone!  

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 21 November 1931

Author reference site: Austlit

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on November 21, 2014 10:22 AM.

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