Perhaps I have been selfish as is sin.
A thief of beauty, I have stolen flower
And fragrance, fruit, and colour hour by hour,
And in my greedy heart close locked it in,
Perhaps when many duties called in voices thin
I turned aside to dream in some rich bower
Of Poesy I made from stars that shower
Their mysteries where images begin.
I know all this; and see against my name
The many marks tumultuously crowd.
For these in bitter pangs doubtless I'll pay.
But when the reckoning is done, and shame
Lies in her own poor home-spun little shroud,
Say that I gave a child one happy day.
First published in The Australasian, 20 December 1924
