Poems (Storrie)/The Grove of Wattles
The Grove of Wattles.
The clamour of the city ringing loud Submerged the hurrying footsteps of the crowd, The teeming ways were all awash with faces, Hopes and despair's peopled the narrow spaces, And I among them, on myself intent, Scant notice on my fellow creatures bent, When, as I passed beneath the shadow of the towers Rose an incredible mirage of flowers! My sacred past, reborn in shimmering yellow Offered for pence, by some rude pavement fellow. Flowers that for years my heart had never sighted Shone there, like golden tapers freshly lighted, And as the tide of aching memories swept On that full fragrance borne, I almost think I wept.
There was the grove of wattles, thickly sown In a large pattern of its own, 1 Manned subtly, as the custom is of trees To catch the mingled sunshine and the breeze, And full beneficence of dew, and here, Wrought like a finer gold upon the sheer Effulgence of the sunlight, rose a fume Of wattle sweets, part fragrance, and part bloom, And part my love of them, that bursting through The limits of the senses made a new And spiritual splendour. For the heart When it is steeped in beauty must impart Some of its rising passion, else it were More than its mere humanity could bear. And I have seen how beauty's outward frame, Be it of colour, sound, or form or flame, Can be so penetrated by a thought, So in the flux of pure emotion caught That every atom incandescent glows, And new, and deeper depths of beauty shows. This is the link of harmony that lies Between our own and the Creator's eyes.
There was the grove of wattles. How they pressed Plume over plume along the crest Of the low hill, while at our very feet Rolled luminous green waves of young September wheat, And overhead those shoreless azure seas Washing the prows of vaporous argosies And the suggestive silence of the bush That palpitates with meaning, and can push With dreamful hand the seen into its place And draw the veil from many a spirit face, Silence, true comrade of the soul that waits Close to the core of things, and translates Those subtle nuances, that thronging round Still delicately evade the power of sound.
There was the grove of wattles. We drew reinOn that small eminence above the plain. The native lark, her shrill song circling sweet In vocal rings, rose from the springing wheat, And like winged emeralds flung into the blue The parroquets in joyous clusters flew, And water-hens, small quaker maidens prim, Trod to and fro about the river's brim, A saddle creaking, and the warning word Uttered from far by an apostle bird, There were the only hints of life, and they Fitted the muted music of the day. 0! arrow-like through all the city's roll, The sense of that sweet silence touched my soul, And cleaving through the barrier of years Entered the very citadel of tears.
There was the grove of wattles. Gold on gold, The perfect moment whose unmatchable mould Breaks then for ever. Sound, and sense, and sight Illumined by a tense and inward light. The tide full-flood, kisses attainment's lips For just one moment ere it sees eclipse, And life has just one harvest of an hour When love puts forth its perfect-petalled flower, That was my tide full-flood, my goal attained, My brimming cup in one quick moment drained, That was my blossom hour, my gold on gold, My perfect moment whose unmatchable mouldBroke then for ever.