Dorothea Mackellar
In a Southern Garden
WHEN the tall bamboos are clicking to the restless little breeze, And bats begin their jerky skimming flight, And the creamy scented blossoms of the dark pittosporum trees, Grow sweeter with the coming of
Burning Off
They’re burning off at the Rampadells, The tawny flames uprise, With greedy licking around the trees; The fierce breath sears our eyes. From cores already grown furnace-hot – The logs are well alight! We
My Country
My Country The love of field and coppice Of green and shaded lanes, Of ordered woods and gardens Is running in your veins. Strong love of grey-blue distance, Brown streams and soft, dim skies
The Open Sea
From my window I can see, Where the sandhills dip, One far glimpse of open sea. Just a slender slip Curving like a crescent moon – Yet a greater prize Than the harbour garden-fair
Fire
This life that we call our own Is neither strong nor free; A flame in the wind of death, It trembles ceaselessly. And this all we can do To use our little light Before,