The Grove of Wattles.
170
Those subtle nuances, that thronging round
Still delicately evade the power of sound.
Still delicately evade the power of sound.
There was the grove of wattles. We drew rein
On 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.
On 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 perfect moment whose unmatchable mould
Breaks then for ever. Sound, and sense, and sight
Illumined by a tense and inward light.
