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
