From a Garden in the Antipodes

Front Cover

Spine

Back Cover

Title Page

From a Garden in the Antipodes by Evelyn Hayes LondonSidgwick & Jackson Ltd.1929 Printed in Great Britain at The Westminster Press 411A Harrow Road London, W.9

Contents

Foreword page 7 Response 8 Pause 9 Gale, S.S.W. 10 Ruth H. T. 11 Catalogue 12 Grace 13 Bulbs 14 Detail 15 Soothsayer 16 Prepare 17 Weather 18 Primavera 19 Sinensis 21 Time 22 Water-colour 23 Discipline 24 Names 25 Alpines 26 Mail 27 Nomenclature 28 Fraicheur 29 Ado 30 Compensation 31 Controversy 32 Kakemono 33 Citrus 34 Incident 35 Primitive 36 Warfare 37 Erica 38 Meridian 39 Surprise 40 Ficus 41 Homage 42 Gradient 44 Garden-lion 45 Fuchsias 46 Elect 47 Æsthetic 48 Glory 49 Perspective 50 Yule 51 Admonition 52 Verdure 53 Fortune 54 Fancy 55 Old Master 56 Appel 57 Sabbath 58 Crisis 59 Fall 60 Trance 61 Dirge 62

Foreword I have told you, Ruth, in plain words, The pleasures of my occupation In the rhythms of the stout spade, The lawn-mower and the constant hoe. But when I listen sometimes to these persistent winds Moaning remotely among the resonant bluegums, Tossing their dark boughs towards this sheer sky— I would that it had been given me To be the maker of a small melody Fit to be chanted by one of Eve’s daughters Throwing her first seed into a rough furrow Or resting in the shadow of a sycamore Playing upon an uncouth instrument.

Response When you wrote your letter it was April, And you were glad that it was spring weather, And that the sun shone out in turn with showers of rain. I write in waning May and it is autumn, And I am glad that my chrysanthemums Are tied up fast to strong posts, So that the south winds cannot beat them down. I am glad that they are tawny coloured, And fiery in the low west evening light. And I am glad that one bush warbler Still sings in the honey-scented wattle… But oh, we have remembering hearts, And we say “How green it was in such and such an April,” And “Such and such an autumn was very golden,” And “Everything is for a very short time.”

Pause When I am very earnestly digging I lift my head sometimes, and look at the mountains, And muse upon them, muscles relaxing. I think how freely the wild grasses flower there, How grandly the storm-shaped trees are massed in their gorges And the rain-worn rocks strewn in magnificent heaps. Pioneer plants on those uplands find their own footing; No vigorous growth, there, is an evil weed: All weathers are salutary. It is only a little while since this hillside Lay untrammelled likewise, Unceasingly swept by transmarine winds. In a very little while, it may be, When our impulsive limbs and our superior skulls Have to the soil restored several ounces of fertiliser, The Mother of all will take charge again, And soon wipe away with her elements Our small fond human enclosures.

Gale, S. S. W. At midnight a fierce storm from the South Pole assails us; Wooden house quivers, chimneys roar, windows rattle, Hailstones clatter on glass panes and iron roof, Deep in our warm beds we lie awake shuddering. Little Omi-Kin-Kan, how are you faring out there in the dark? Do not lose heart. Hold on till daylight. Then will I come with watering-can and a piece of canvas, To unbind the icicles, and shield you from the impetuous sun.

Ruth H. T. “Ruth” is my very fine new rose-tree. “Compact in growth” is she, and “fairly vigorou”; Her leaves so “dark and shiny, will not mildew.” “Erect” she carries “large round blooms of copper-carmine” “Continuous” these blooms, and “sweetly scented” Around her base spring many-coloured tulips; Beside her leans an orange crimson-spotted lily; Beneath her smiles a small bright apricot-hued viola. —So to my faith, and for your fancy. But the facts are: Two bare thorny twigs with a pink label; Stuck in the earth around them several white pegs!

Catalogue “Now is the time for planting shrubs.” Shall I plant shrubs? ‘Shrubs’ is an ugly word! When one says “shrubs,” I think of suburbs, Damp villas, desert isles, detective stories. (‘Bank’ is an ugly word——and yet one said ‘I know a bank where the wild thyme grows.’) Come, let me read this catalogue of shrubs, And choose out those with lovely-sounding names. Adenandra uniflora, Aloysia Citriodora, Iochroma Tubulosa, Podalyria Grandiflora, Melaleuca, Santolina, Lasiandra, Cantua, Cassia, Felecia, Luculia, Daphne… Shrubs. I am planting shrubs.

Grace I have a little Raven Who brings me my dinner; Her tresses are raven, May she never grow thinner, She brings me my dinner— But not by a brook. She feeds me, she scolds me, She scolds me, she feeds me, I’m a hungry old sinner, She brings me my dinner, She cooks it in the kitchen Beside a cookery book!

Bulbs I have planted lilies, but will they all grow well with me? Will they like the glitter of this north-looking hillside? Will they like the rude winds, the stir, the quick changes? Would they not have shadowy stillnesses, and peace? Lilium Chalcedonicum, Calla Aethiopica, Lilium auratum, candidum, the martagon, Lilium speciosum, pardalinum, umbellatum, Amaryllis, convalleria, nerine. All these lovely lilies, I wish that they would grow with me: No other flowers have the texture of the lilies, The heart-piercing fragrance, the newly alighted angel’s Lineal poise, and purity, and peace— (We wait their pleasure; yet, if they grow not, Need only take patience a little while longer; For these are the flowers we look to find blooming In the meadows and lanes that lie beyond Jordan— All kinds of lilies in the lanes that lead gently, Very gently, by degrees, in the shade of green trees, To the foothills and fields of Paradise.)

Detail My garage is a structure of excessive plainness, It springs from a dry bank in the back garden, It is made of corrugated iron, And painted all over with brick-red. But beside it I have planted a green Bay-tree, —A sweet Bay, an Olive, and a Turkey Fig, —A Fig, an Olive, and a Bay.

Soothsayer I walked about the garden in the evening, And thought : How Autumn lingers— Still a few gold chrysanthemums— Still one late rose— The old blackbird still has voice. I walked back down the pathway, The evening light lay gently on the orchard; Then I saw a redness on the peach boughs, And bulb-spears pushing upwards, And heard the old blackbird whistle— “Get ready. Get ready. Get ready. Quick. Quick. Spring.” So I cut down the last chrysanthemums, Pulled up their stakes and piled them in the shed, At hand to serve me soon for young delphiniums.

Prepare Not yet came spring, but the last lap of winter. Storms. Hail. Rain. Rain. Rain. Flowers all swept down. Birds silent. Then much hard toil. Much backache. Muddy boots. Scratched hands. Deep sleep. Then one morning a general greenness, And all the rose-bushes broken into leaf…

Weather More rain has fallen this winter Than in the winters of twenty-one years past. The oldest inhabitant does not remember A winter of so many violent storms. Soil water-logged. Season retarded. Gardens undone. (The ever-dismal daily paper!) But orange Poor Man, who did sulk for nine months, And threw off all his leaves, and shivered naked, Is covering his twigs with little bright green knobs. Montana Rubens, wept for dead not long since, Has turned herself into a delightful garland.

Primavera I must pass you by, primroses, I must pass you by When I boast of the fair flowers translated to please our eye,— The sight of you here under the apple-tree has too sweet a sting, So like, so unlike the sight of you in an English orchard in spring. You should not be here, primroses, yet must I have you here To look up at us with your patient smile in the strange spring of the year— The strange September spring, whereas in April we should be In the greenwoods or ever their green veil has lost transparency. Not current coin, primroses, but a foreign token, The wonted word out of the past that we never hear spoken,— Coomb, coppice, spinney, aye, and primrose-wood, Not understood, dale and meadow, not understood. In patria, primroses, in patria—do you hear? La patrie—la patrie c’est le pays du désir— And everywhere by brake and hedge primroses may be seen In a grey veil of netted twigs or ever the thicket is green. If you were nothing more, primroses, than yellow and sweet, I would ask Time to turn back again that youth and I might meet, That I might go looking for you in a winding English lane, And your tender fragrance so fresh in the mist, in the rain. But there are reasons, primroses, there are secret reasons, Why we shall not resent the sure process of the seasons, Our transitory springtime and the quick passing of the years, But like you with the dew on you smile up through our tears! Beyond the sprinkled nebulae of the faint starry way, Like your own starry clusters in the dusk of a clear day, Far beyond dim avenues of planetary space, The clue to your sweet look is hid in a celestial place. And who but you should trim the brink of Supernal Beauty’s spring? Whose souls but yours adorn the groves where immortal choirs sing? The sight of you here under the apple tree has so sweet a sting, —And in patria, primroses, in patria?

Sinensis A Friend said: “You must be dull sometimes Away up there on that hill.” But the Horticulturist is deprived of the experience of dullness; When he is not labouring in physical toil, Or attempting to alleviate ever-recurring hunger and thirst, He is working out a succession of vegetables, Or engaged in agreeable speculations Relating to the prospects of four or five years hence, Or, after an unfortunate disappointment, Seeking the consolations of Philosophy. He has never accomplished when the sun goes down More than a small portion of what he had intended to do. The poet Marvell said, in one of his compositions: “But at my back I always hear Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.” Such is, likewise, the experience of the Horticulturist.

Time “Established” is a good word, much used in garden books, “The plant, when established”… Oh, become established quickly, quickly, garden! For I am fugitive, I am very fugitive—— Those that come after me will gather these roses, And watch, as I do now, the white wistaria Burst, in the sunshine, from its pale green sheath. Planned. Planted. Established. Then neglected, Till at last the loiterer by the gate will wonder At the old, old cottage, the old wooden cottage, And say “One might build here, the view is glorious; This must have been a pretty garden once.”

Water-Colour With what peculiar pleasure one beholds A garden colour-scheme mature correctly. With what dismay, misled by catalogues, One sees wrong reds unfold, or the wrong yellows, Or, worst of all these woes, wrong pinks! One little group now by grey stones encircled; Madame Segond Weber on a standard, Rosy dianthus, tufty Mrs. Sinkins, Slim white bride gladiolus, catmint, Without doubt it is a chef d’œuvre. This joy is only for the gardener. The water-colour painter of his visions Wash upon wash at length achieves expression. But would your aquarellist be kept waiting One, two, three years for their accomplishment? Would he be waiting for more years even, Because he has made one false stroke?

Discipline I said: I will go into the garden and consider roses; I will observe the deployment of their petals, And compare one variety with another. But I was made to sit down and scrape potatoes. The morning’s rosebuds passed by unattended, While I sat bound to monotonous kitchen industry. Howbeit the heart of my consort was exhilarated, And for virtuous renunciation I received praise. The taste of the potatoes was satisfactory With a sprig of fresh mint, dairy butter, and very young green peas.

Names Solitary, after all, were the gardener, But for the accompaniment of words. In this my matutinal seclusion Sights, sounds, and scents, all, all agree to please. Comely the smile of all well-natured subjects, Goodly the smell of wholesome up-turned soil. Lovely above all is this silence— But the silence is vibrant with words! They murmur in the distance like bees, They whisper in the rustle of the trees, Then springs one, instant to be heard, Sings on my shoulder like a bird.

Alpines Away with you, plausible rhymes, that come to me unbidden; I listen for little sounds that are shy and hidden: Away to the poets’ pastures, all too mettlesome steeds; Halting, pausing footsteps suffice for my needs. Only to echo for a moment The rock-garden’s toy-symphony. To voice the persistence of a sessile veronica Or the pearly shadows of a dwarf campanula. The peeping of a shy saxifrage Or a stone-pillowed androsace. But how to perpetuate— (Stockstill now and awestruck) By means of any hieroglyph, The deep, the living azure of the dark blue gentian?

Mail I was intent on a small box of ugly tubers, Thinking: How merry these will look in autumn, All in a row along that bright green trellis, Chestnut, magenta red, old gold, maroon; Round, flat, frilled faces of Collarette Dahlias, Holyrood, Rosette, Patrol,— But I laid down my trowel when I heard the postman’s whistle, For I knew that he might bring an ocean-mail, Went up to the gate-box and there found your letter, And left my dahlias dormant in their nest. You had been out walking on a Sunday, And in the Regent’s Park had much admired fine dahlias, All with their names, in ranks, magnificent. I could not go on with my gardening For dreaming of loved and lost London, And Regent’s Park on summer Saturdays, And hearing the shrill calls of young boys playing cricket, And ceaseless distant scream of captive seals.

Nomenclature I name you Mr. Anon, gladiolus seedling, For a beloved person in a strange and beautiful book. Your colour is strange and lovely, seedling gladiolus, Is it prune? or petunia? or peradventure puce? You shall grow here, Mr. Anon, with Niagara and Ali, With Blue Jay and Schwaben, beside the yellow rose-bed. With all the new and beautiful, tall, straight gladioluses, Purple, and nankeen yellow, and heliotrope.

Fraicheur In the night a storm raged, but at sunrise is pacified; The sky is all clear, the wide plains are verdurous. Overhead veers a seagull, with hoarse and wild cries;— Storm-driven seagull, return to your ocean, See how still now it smiles beside the snow mountains, How still it sparkles in the unleashed sunshine. In my bushes chirp busily bright little land-birds; The burrowing worms are happy in the moist soil.

Ado It grows too fast! I cannot keep pace with it! While I mow the front lawns, the drying green becomes impossible; While I weed the east path, from the west path spring dandelions; What time I sort the borders, the orchard escapes me. And then the interruptions! the interlopers! While I clap my hands against the blackbird, Michael, our cat, is rolling on a seedling; While I chase Michael, a young rabbit is eyeing the lettuces. And oh, the orgies, to think of the orgies, When I am not present to preside over this microcosm!

Compensation I went down into the trivial city to transact business. In the tramcar passengers argued without logic; In the shops too costly wares; In the Bank too little money; In the long streets too hot sun. But at the Post Office they gave me your letter. In my hill garden at sunset I read it. A cool wind from the seawaves blew gently And I saw that little Omi-Kin-Kan had put forth a green shoot.

Controversy There is perpetual contention Between the guardian of the dwelling house and the demesne. Shall the garden be a paradise, And the inside of the cottage a shambles? Or contrariwise, the garden a wilderness, While we preserve the image of a Dutch interior? While one cries out “The wash-up waits!” The other murmurs wistfully “The lawns! the lawns!” Tell me now, what is your dream— The neatest apartment in Knightsbridge? Or in a deep glade of Eden a booth of green boughs?

Kakemono My pale blue iris, Caterina, is more than four foot high, My pale yellow snapdragon is as tall as Caterina, And my pale blue delphinium is much taller even than they. What beautiful lines they make! what delicate patterns! Arrowy jets of limpid hues; Lives there still a Japanese artist Who, with his paint brush, could make us tremble To see those lines, those tenuous colours Spring again vibrant as I now see them springing In their fugacity?

Citrus O little Omi-Kin-Kan, your green shoots are so sturdy You will soon catch up to that slim lemon tree; Perhaps in seven or eight years you will bear oranges, And lord-knows-who will boil them into marmalade While we buy ours ready-made at the Army and Navy Stores!

Incident To-day I woke at half-past-five, and roused My so reluctant frame, and went to hose Thirsty hydrangeas and my parched green peas. Scenting the showers, there came a minute bird (Our Michael being occupied elsewhere), Fluttered and danced among the gracious drops, Flirted his wings, and frisked his little tail, Darted bright glances from his nodding head. Such are the joys, O metropolitan, That do acceptably illuminate My now declining years.

Primitive It is positively necessary that your imagination should depict A portion of my herbaceous border, Where red and yellow geums and dark blue anchusas Spring side by side from their abundant green. It is the scarlet of Crimean battle pictures; It is the blue of illustrations of Trafalgar; It is the yellow that in old prints stands for gold; Sheer vermilion, ultramarine, cadmium. I have not yet evoked an image of true loveliness! I tell you they are the pure colours the Angelic Brother saw in heaven, And would not leave us ignorant. Their extreme brightness might well make you weep for joy.

Warfare Night and day my garden now is menaced By a host of abominable enemies. Some visible, some invisible, or darkly lurking, Some threatened by prophetic experts, and anticipated; Mildew, rust, red mite, codlin moth, Woodlice, thrip, scale, cherry slug, Pullulating aphis, caterpillars, beetles, All manner of devils, animal and vegetable. I assault, I give battle relentlessly, till my strength is exhausted. But is it a forlorn hope? What are my spray and a few chemicals? A truce! Let me sit down upon this bench, And lift my eyes beyond the confines of this strife! How peaceful sleeps the great Pacific to the eastward; Mile upon mile unbroken rests the open plain; The purple mountains in mysterious repose; The dim sky buttressed with a northern arch of cloud; Faint, in the amethystine radiance of the west, Eternal snows.…

Erica Sit down with me awhile beside the heath-corner. Here have I laboured hour on hour in winter, Digging thick clay, breaking up clods, and draining, Carrying away cold mud, bringing up sandy loam, Bringing these rocks and setting them all in their places, To be shelter from winds, shade from too burning sun. See, now, how sweetly all these plants are springing Green, ever green, and flowering turn by turn, Delicate heaths, and their fragrant Australian kinsmen, Shedding, as once unknown in New Holland, strange scents on the air, And purple and white daboecia—the Irish heather— Said in the nurseryman’s list to be so well suited For small gardens, for rock gardens, and for graveyards.

Meridian Summer has won at last. Thin lines of snow recede on the high ridges; The plains are spread out brown under a blue haze; My pinched zinnias rejoice with the marigolds and verbenas, They burst out into the colours of a rich eastern carpet; And Michael sleeps deeply under pinus insignis in cool shade.

Surprise Now a wonderful thing has happened— It is indeed a pleasing phenomenon— Come, coadjutor, abandon the newspaper, Come, Michael, come—for shall you not witness, Though in our emotion you may not participate? Come, come, this charming occasion to celebrate— Omi-Kin-Kan is wearing white blossoms—eleven!

Ficus Of what complacence every morning now Our unpretentious garden is the scene! But yesterday to transports we were moved By our young Omi-Kin-Kan’s coronal. To-day our infant Turk his leafy sprouts restrains, And duly offers us one small plump fig.

Homage I have told you much of the flowers in my garden, And many yet remain of which I have not told, But when I would tell you of the roses, the roses— When it comes to the roses, how should I find words? Yet to them I would consecrate a few faltering sentences As they grow in their companies by colour and by kind. Did I but enumerate the tale of chosen roses, It would surely bring, to the chosen listener, joy. Their names may be recorded; but what record might be given Of their symmetry, spell-binding scents, the depth And gradual brilliance of eye-reposing hue? No need, no need; when one speaks the word roses, roses, All their beauty and significance is spoken too. Roses of Persia, Roses of Damascus; Roses held up for sale in Piccadilly Circus; Roses for queens’ bedchambers, and the costermongers’ holiday; Roses for the tender babe’s first apprehensions; And for the sage’s mystic contemplations; Roses for marriage pomps, and the dear maid’s untimely bier; Roses for fame, pride, joy, romance, Rapture, remembrance, solace in sore pain; Symbols of secrecy, truth, love, holiness; Roses on the green graves of our mortality, Roses by the green walks of the New Jerusalem— So, to all you, my lovely roses, Hail.

Gradient My garden has a declivity of one in ten feet. How easy when I go down in the morning To visit the vegetable marrows and perpetual spinach! How steep when at evening, my labours concluded, I collect all my implements and climb up to my bed! How favourable for beholding the heavens, At cockcrow, at sunrise, on a cloud-adorned afternoon, Or in the still, starry night!

Garden-Lion O Michael, you are at once the enemy And the chief ornament of our garden, Scrambling up rose-posts, nibbling at nepeta, Making your lair where tender plants should flourish, Or proudly couchant on a sun-warmed stone. What do you do all night there, When we seek our soft beds, And you go off, old roisterer, Away into the dark? I think you play at leopards and panthers; I think you wander on to foreign properties; But on winter mornings you are a lost orphan Pitifully wailing underneath our windows; And in summer, by the open doorway, You come in pad, pad, lazily to breakfast, Plumy tail waving, with a fine swagger, Like a drum-major, or a parish beadle, Or a rich rajah, or the Grand Mogul.

Fuchsias For you, oh gracious urban, are exhibited All the regalia of Regent Street And the subtlest schemes of the proudest purlieus Of Hanover Square. Ah, but you have not seen the present display of fashion In our fuchsia-row. A coat of damask pink and an under-robe of crimson— A rose-red polonaise and a petunia petticoat— An ivory-white wimple and a purple habit— A plum-coloured paletot and scarlet pantaloons— It is prodigious! These elegant persons like a little morning sunshine, But shaded seclusion on sultry afternoons; They are sheltered therefore by the south wall of our dwelling And are admired by visitors approaching near our door.

Elect You have been my treasure, Rose Pilgrim, Because of your beautiful name. But because of your name I would not pamper you, And I chose you to be planted in a difficult place, In the pathway of the east wind; Where at times, too, your roots might become thirsty, Although I have a thirty-foot hose. You have thriven in spite of these disadvantages. When your first shoots were battered by the spring storms, Others pushed forth perseveringly. You have been my treasure, Pilgrim Rose. And you are up near the frontier, near the gateway, So that when I came home, tired, in the evening, Home to my hill-garden, Rose Pilgrim, You are the first flower I find there, You are the very first flower, my Rose Pilgrim, Pilgrim, my sweet rose.

Æsthetic Yellow daisy, yellow daisy, where have I known you? Something conies back to me from a far distant past— Now I remember you were painted on a mantel-piece, A Victorian mantel-piece, on a green background, By one called Ethel, out of Thackeray.

Glory This same evening that I write I witnessed, Resting on a garden bench and looking westward, Sublime splendours. Beyond the blood-red rose-engarrisoned footpath, And the dun green flatlands where a few human lights glimmered, Wild indigo and magenta rainstorms invested The dark recesses of the mountain ranges. Clouds overhead burst into cornelian flames, Transmuting by their strange glow all the garden pigments. Then was revealed, in a dim turquoise interstice, A very young, remote, and slender, but outshining But all predominant moon. In such an hour the soul finds an appeasement Not justified by reasons of commonsense. In that hour she asks of the inscrutable No more petulant questions.

Perspective I find vegetables fatiguing And would rather buy them in a shop. But to the right-minded person the soul of his holding Is the parallel-rowed, neat, early vegetable plot. “I hope you like the colour-pattern of this garden,— White flowering creepers by the white painted cottage, By the middle path red roses, purple underlings, By the east path yellow, and pale and dark violet, Here gentlest pink all interspersed with lilac, And here I design blues, sapphire blues— >Rich and rejoicing, is it not, to the spectator?” “Yes, very nice, very nice indeed… How well your beans and cabbages are coming on.”

Yule To you, Lady, at this hour, it may be, watching winter mists Weave their white webs about the woodlands of your villeggiatura, I would say that here, to-night, my white rose Silver Moon Swings her soft cloudy wreaths above the lucent ranks Of white-robed lilies, Gabriel’s lilies, Christmas lilies, Whose incense wafted wide mounts up into the welkin, While our midsummer twilight resolves itself to stars. But now our calm antipodean vigil Saluted is by old accustomed strains And I must go give sixpence to the Army lass Whose band below there at the cross-roads Plays conscientiously for tribute— Nowel—Nowel—Nowel—Nowel—

Admonition Now, Michael, understand me. Be attentive. The hedgehogs are my very good friends; So are the lizards, basking in the sun; Of the bush-warblers I will say nothing— There you are fanatical and will not listen, So we must differ (the little birds have wings). But take heed that we find no tailless lizards: Know that the rockwalls are reserved for lizards; And you shall not frighten hedgehogs in the dark; Confine, Michael, your hostilities to rabbits, The neighbour’s dog, mice (if any), or a rat. Or those phantom creatures in the undergrowth, Creaking, rustling, crawling before daybreak, Making your eyes burn and your fur tingle, When our garden turns into a strange jungle, An old cat-ghostly forest, an immemorial hunting-ground, So wild, so still, so dangerous‐ Before the break of day.

Verdure Do you remember, Ruth, in the years of our immaturity, How you loved to be surrounded by green ornamentations? You would applaud in my garden now the green environment That tenderly encompasses its bright blooming denizens. But for the gem-green setting of this florid jewellery, Green of jade, emerald, aquamarine, chrysoberyl, But for the intermediate lawns and plotted plain green spaces, The soft greensward springing night and day continuously, Leafage of lemon, myrtle, rosemary, and mimosa, Cypress-green shades of the high microcarpa hedges, And the tall boundary trees’ bronze and viridian boughs— But for all these I should have, not a pleasaunce, not a garden, But a heterogeneous botanical display.

Fortune “At least we shall have roses” laughed my companion, Looking on the bundles arrived from the nursery, All with their labels tied up so neatly, All with their shaven crests and roots so well developed— “We shall always have roses here.” “At least we shall have roses” this morning I repeated, Looking on the summer’s lustrous assemblage, Beholding the long shoots, as once before in spring-time, Zestfully preparing for their latter blooming— “We shall always have roses, here.” Others may sail away to the sea-coasts of Bohemia, Cathay, and Coromandel, Malay, and Patagonia, Hong Kong, and Halifax, Bombay, and Pernambuco, Frisco and Singapore, and all the world’s fine harbours— Wistfully we may watch them loosed from our limitations,— But for us, at least, roses, here.

Fancy When we were children and remote from cities, My sister, being youngest, walked about the garden In profound converse with unseen companions. And some were harbingers of highest bliss, And some were commonplace and comfortable; Others obtuse, received with argument, And some, unamiable, must be scolded: And some dismissed at once with looks of scorn And good-bye and good-day to you. At times I too address my thoughts To an imaginary visitant.

Old Master Or picture, here, some Conversazione With flowers, birds, grass, and purple hills beyond, And gilding sunlight, eloquent chiaroscuro, And noble forms augustly grouped, and still— Smiling and still. Initiate and aware. And thronging on the outskirts, in the foreground, You, and you, and you, beloved familiars, Bearing your individual sign and coat of arms, Surprised and still, smiling and yet expectant— Found. Known. Secure. And reconciled.

Appel These insect-calling scents call me out also Into the blazing noon or the short twilight Or the unblemished sweetnesses of dawn; Scents that were cloying within closed casements Borne on the free winds are soul-reviving spices, Lures to fill up the lungs with youth-renewing airs. Memorial smells, summons to the unconscious, Secret balms, restoring innocent gladness, Calling us back to sincere gladness and joy. Honeysuckles, thymes, jasmines, pinks, lavenders, Aromatic trees, fragrant herbs. So, long ago, I think, the Syrian Shepherd Inhaled the sweet airs of his hills and valleys, Drew in his breath and sang: Yahweh sustains me: Lifted his head, and went his way rejoicing.

Sabbath A fine day, but one for reasoned abstention. Tempt me not, sturdy mattock, nor you, cunning trowel, Nor you, keen-edged secateurs! Perhaps with finger and thumb one might venture? But no! desist now, you scheming brain-cells, And rest, hand, primeval tool. Rather, recumbent on this sunny grass-slope, My mind shall meditate upon divine husbandry, And ponder emblems, allegories, parables— The vine, the scattered seed, the threshing flail; And think of peace flowing like that mighty river, And justice, standing fast like those great mountains, And for similitude of the soft blue above me, Pitifulness. Tender mercy.

Crisis When Michael plays on a bidibid’ patch, And a crestfallen figure of fun Approaches our portals furtively, All hands muster and run As if to a grass-fire, incontinently, Down tools, hurry and run— Seize him before his endeavours To gloss the disaster have begun. Though he bite and claw, half in fury And half in gratified fun, We most gently and delicately The embedded burrs one by one Disengage from his op ulent vesture Till the morning hours have run. All my work antedated! All our duties undone! Because great Michael rolled heedlessly On a bidibidi patch in the sun! Ah, Michael, year by year the same catastrophe; Yearly these old incorrigible capers; Yearly must we undo the work of atavistic vagrancy; Because Dame Nature has withheld from you, old blunder (But not from us, the bludgeoned and belaboured!), The deep incisive doctrines of experience.

Fall Autumn, I think, now. Rose hues assume a deeper intensity. Little birds flying in from far in the wild bush Pursue insects boldly even into our parlours. The play of the winds is less turbulent: They scatter gently forespent petallage, And a scent of ripe seeds is borne on their soft gusts. To-day I do not perceive the outcry of young folk; Perhaps they are helping to get in some harvest, Or far afield for important ball-games. Only old men pause by the sunny roadside Noticing the same sights that I have noticed, And listening to the same quietness. We do not regret that we are of ripe years; We do not complain of grey hairs and infirmities; We are drowsy and very ready to fall into deep sleep.

Trance While others slept I rose, and looked upon the garden, Lying so still there in the rare light of the soon-to-be-setting moon. The soft, sharp shadows marked a familiar pattern, But not a leaf stirred, not a blade of grass quivered, The trees seemed petrified, and the hedges cut out of black glass. So still it lay, it suffered an enchantment. It was the dimly mirrored image of a grove laid up in heaven, Or the calm mirage of a long-since-lost oasis, Or the unflickering dream of a serene midnight Dreamt by one falling into profound sleep. It was the spectral vision of a work accomplished, done with. Veiled in the silvery mists of very long past years; Myself the wraith, from all vicissitude abstracted, Of one who had, perhaps, once known expectance, Had sown in tears and learnt the grave joys of harvest, Had long ago, perhaps, an enclosed garden tended, Had for a short while, perhaps, been happy there.

Dirge Easter. And leaves falling. Easter. And first autumn rains. Easter. And dusk stealing Our bright working daylight; And cold night coming down In which we may not work. Easter. And morning bells Chime in the late dark. Soon those fluttering birds Will seek a more genial clime. Time has come to light fires For lack of enlivening sun. Summer’s arrow is spent, Stored her last tribute. So, now, we plant our bulbs With assured vision, And, now, we sow our seeds Sagely for sure quickening. So, purging our borders We burn all rubbish up, That all weak and waste growth, That all unprofitable weeds, All canker and corrosion, May be consumed utterly. These universal bonfires Have a savour of sacrifice. See how their clean smoke, Ruddy and white whorls, Rises to the still heavens In plumy spirals. You take me—yes, I know it— Fresh from your vernal Lent. These ashes I will now spread For nutriment about the roses, Dust unto fertile dust, And say no word more.

Acknowledgment and Note

Nine of these poems first appeared in The Home, and three in Art in Australia. Acknowledgments are due to the editors of these Sydney periodicals for permission to reprint.

P. 59. Bidibidi is the Maori name (commonly abbreviated as in line 1) of a noxious weed, said to be a variety of Acaena, that gets into sheep’s wool.