The Grove of Wattles.
169
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.
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
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
