page 7

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.