A baby girl not two years old
Among the phlox and pansies stands,
And full of flowers as they can hold
Her mother fills her little hands,

And bids her cross to where I stay
Within my garden's fragrant space,
And guides her past the poppies gay
'Mid mazes of the blooming place,

Saying, " Go carry Thea these! "
Delighted, forth the baby fares,
Between the fluttering-winged sweet peas
Her treasured buds she safely bears.

'T is but a step, but oh, what stress
Of care! What difficulties wait!

Our Seer, the net-mender,
The day that he died
Looked out to the seaward
At ebb of the tide.
Gulls drove like the snow
Over bight, over barn,
As he sang to the ebb
On the rock Lindisfarne:
— Hail, thou blue ebbing!
The breakers are gone
From the stormy coast-islet
Bethundered and lone!
Hail, thou wide shrinking
Of foam and of bubble —
The reefs are laid bare
And far off is the trouble!
For through this withdrawal
As soft as a smile,
The isle of the flood
Is no longer an isle. â?¦

Back from a tedious holiday
He comes, and — Duty first — he looks
Around for his familiar books;
But all the room's in disarray!
He searches, what's the matter, eh?
He hunts in most unheard of nooks.
— Were robbers here, or were they cooks,
Who seized, who stole my Books away?
Not one! What wind has blown about,
What tempest can have tossed them out,
And cleared the shelves that used to hold them? —
No cook, no thief, no tempest came,
His lady wife 'tis she's to blame,
Who carted off the Books — and sold them!

O Queen, I bring thee heather white as a prayer:
Heather fostered beneath a mountain fir.
But, hush, I hear a voice in the wind demur —
— Not white, but purple is meet for a queen to wear.
Bring purple heather for her royal hair,
Or crimson heather — is not thy heart astir
With a tumult of crimson blood when you think of her
So cold, so proud, and so surpassingly fair? —

O Queen, and I answer the wind in gentle-wise,
Saying that I have chosen as embassy
This passionless heather, thinking it may devise

Caves are there, trodden by the sea alone,
With labyrinths and mazes — long ago
Silently sculptured by its secret flow —
Where crooked bones of uncouth beasts are strewn,
And hideous monsters lie and sleep, unknown
Even to the waves that wander to and fro
With eyes shut, fearing what their sight might show;
And trembling as they hear their echoed moan.

And every heart knows caves as dim and deep,
Where mouldy bones of uncouth sins decay,
With corners where old devils, half asleep,
Wait only for a voice or step to say,

The poor old Chestnut at my gate
Stands stark and bare —
These wild October rains and wind
No beauty spare —
Against the monotonous sky of threatening gray
How dolorous pathetic a form to-day!
Short, short seems the vanished while since when
Its green and rose
Bade tenderest welcome to the Spring —
Spent Winter's snows
And rigorous cruelty that held Earth pent
In straitened durance of glum discontent.

Yet, that May Morn sprang all to life
Around, within;
Gay flowers, birds, bees, and butterflies —
Ah! sure 'twere sin

The schools marched in procession in happiness and pride,
The city bands before them, the soldiers marched beside:
O starched white frocks and sashes and suits that high schools wear,
The boy scout and the boy lout and all the rest were there,
And all flags save Australia's flag waved high in sun and air!

The Girls' High School and Grammar School and colleges of stone
Flew all flags from their walls and towers — all flags except our own!
And down here in the alleys where Premiers never come,
Nor candidate, nor delegate, nor sound of fife and drum,

on its departure to the Victoria and Albert Museum.

Goodbye, Old Friend, 'tis fourscore years,
Or nigh, since first you won
My childish heart! What wonder tears
Well up now you are gone?

Together you and I no more
May watch how fares our home,
Its shifts and changes floor to floor
While fashions go and come.

But 'mid them ah! to you at least
All paid their courteous bow,
As time sped on your charm increased,

Almighty on High!
I long to know my lord,
Let our love never fade or die
Till mountains have no peaks,
Or rivers run dry,
Till thunder roars in winter,
Or snow pours down in summer,
Till the skies merge with the ground —
Then may I die with my lord!

Why cease to love thee? Is not loving free?
I also love the daisies in the sod,
Discovering alike in them and thee
The love of God.

And if I leave the daisies in the grass,
And thy bright beauty in thy Maker's care,
Why should I not sing softly as I pass,
And call you fair?

I dare to love thee. Be it even so,
I also love the sunset in the west.
I find in thee and in the sunset-glow
God manifest.

Why censure me? I would not rob the sky
Of one red sunset rose or one white star.
And count thee unattainable and high