Dear, if I did not have these precious things
Gold-misted dreams and white imaginings --
My heart had never known the need of wings.
I should be touched with peace, content to stay,
Living my little life from day to day,
With feet not questing for the far-away.
But I should never feel my heart beat fast
To see white-billowing clouds go sailing past
A robin's breast, a rose, a leaning mast.
I should not weep with foolish joy, and thrill
To watch the dark pines crown the lonely hill,
The wintry trees stand ashen-pale and still.
I should not fill that hidden heart of me
With people as I picture them to be,
And weep when these are vanished, secretly.
Dear, this is I - a mass of futile things,
Of golden dreams and white imaginings,
Yet I would lose all else, and keep my wings!
First published in The Australasian, 16 July 1927