Quiet Things by Myra Morris

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Now when I think of quiet things
I think of gulls
With folded wings;
Of rain that winds on silver spools
In roadside pools;
And tall green-patterned jars that spill
The scent of roses
Sweet as spice;
And Sister Agnes
With her strings
Of wooden beads,
Her face as still
As pine-woods, and her hands
Moving like gentle doves
That fly 
When evening comes o'er shadowy lands.

First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 4 December 1934

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on December 4, 2014 8:09 AM.

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