‘BEES of old Spanish wine Pipe at this Inn to-night, Music and candleshine Fill the dim chambers . . . . ’Fans toss and ladies pace,

LESBIA’S daughter, I shall tel… Here’s no fit amber for such a dai… Let them embalm your beauty whoso… In boastful odes, I’m a more hone… Lovers’ abodes with poets’ words a…

The Snowdrop Girl in fields of sn… Whiter than foam, deeper than wate… Flakes of wild milk gone blowing, Snowing on cloudy stalks. The Snowdrop Girl goes picking fl…

North Country, filled with gestur… With trees that fence, like archer… The flanks of hidden valleys Where nothing’s left to hide But verticals and perpendiculars,

GUTTED of station, noise alone, The crow’s voice trembles down the… As if this nitrous flange of stone Wept suddenly with such a cry; As if the rock found lips to sigh,

These black bush-waters, heavy wit… Like plumes above dead captains, w… Uncounted kissing, unremembered vo… Nights long forgotten, moons too d… Or stars too cold... all quick thi…

SMOKE upon smoke; over the stone… Of chimneys bleeding, a darker fum… Night, the old nun, in voiceless p… To kiss corruption, so fabulous he… All drowns in night. Even the laz…

COOK was a captain of the Admira… When sea-captains had the evil eye… Or should have, what with beating… And casting nativities of ships; Cook was a captain of the powder-d…

THE smell of birds’ nests faintly… Is autumn. In the autumn I came Where spring had used me better, To the clear red pebbles and the m… And foundered beetles, to the brok…

READING how Marco Polo came By bridle-path to Kanbalu, Forgotten fibres wake to flame, And smoke old memories anew . . .… For in a bygone life of mine

So quiet it was in that high, sun-… So warm and still, that sometimes… Through the great windows, bright… There’d float a chime from clock-j… Clapping iron mallets on green cop…

After the whey-faced anonymity Of river-gums and scribbly-gums an… After the rubbing and the hit of b… You come to the South Country As if the argument of trees were d…

VENUS with rosy-cloven rump And rings of straw-bright flying h… Looks in the glass that slaves are… Not for her own face floating ther… But for the sly and curious gaze

Country towns, with your willows a… And farmers bouncing on barrel mar… To public houses of yellow wood With '1860' over their doors, And that mysterious race of Hogan…

No pause! The buried pipes ring o… The flour-faced Antic runs from s… Now Columbine, with scarlet pout, Floats in the smoking moon of ligh… Now programmes wave, heads bend be…