Page:Wongan Way by Lilian Wooster Greaves, 1927.pdf/5



Bright House of Dreams, your galleries extend;
 * Give larger place to Memory’s echoing halls.

Let golden cords from silver rods depend,
 * That I may hang more pictures on your walls.

What treasures have I gathered in the years
 * Of pilgrimage among the quiet hills,

No nobler work on Linton's walls appears;
 * No fairer fancy Rossi’s studio fills.

All painted by the oldest masters too—
 * Sir Sol, his rainbow palette in his hand;

Luna, her silver pencil dipped in dew;
 * August, most handsome of Dame Flora’s band.

Dawn, with his taper fingers rosy red;
 * Evening, her royal shading unsurpassed.

The vagrant seasons, painting as they sped,
 * Vowing each master-piece to he their last.

These, and that super-craftsman, Cloud by name,
 * Did in times past their genius record.

Nature, the cunning dealer, knew their fame,
 * And cleverly their costly works restored.

Room then, for these: and for more precious things,
 * Bright House of Dreams, upon your mist-grey walls—

Portraits more fair than all imaginings;
 * Faces that smiled on me in Friendship’s halls.

So build a larger place for Memory.
 * And though your shining door stands wide at night,

Yet would I use by day Love’s jewelled key,
 * And enter in, renewing my delight.

The Tree of Time his leafy boughs outspread;
 * The migrant months, like birds had built their nests,

And reared their broods of singing days that fled
 * Too soon on flashing wings with gleaming breasts.

But some, their mournful wailings uttering,
 * Were dull of feather and of languid flight;

And, gloom to gloom, at last on weary wing
 * They vanished o’er the hueless sea of night.

But best and brightest were the "mystery" days
 * Of closely folded wing and sombre plume;

Till, challenged by a wind from forest ways.
 * Full laden with the scent of wattle-bloom,

The wakened birds an answering challenge cried—
 * "Away! away!" they sang; and soared and wheeled;