The Beauty of Life

 

I had not dreamed that life could be so fair,

Until you kissed its meaning into me,

And sent my soul along its airy lea

To find a sudden beauty everywhere.

Make me a couch of grass, Love, green and rare,

A pansy-pillow, filled with rosemary;

And be your face the only light I see

Through the dark curtain of my falling hair!

So shall the wandering winds that come our way

Pause as they pass and tiptoe overhead,

Fearing to stir the stream of dewy sleep

That loops our lives and holds our souls in sway;

And if Death comes with sad and pensive tread

We shall not hear the tears his angels weep.

 

                                                Zora Cross  

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Books

 

Oh, bury me in books when I am dead,

Fair quarto leaves of ivory and gold,

And silk octavos, bound in brown and red,

That tales of love and chivalry unfold.

 

Heap me in volumes of fine vellum wrought,

Creamed with the close content of silent speech;

Wrap me in sapphire tapestries of thought

From some old epic out of common reach.

 

I would my shroud were verse-embroidered too-

Your verse for preference – in starry stitch,

And powdered o'er with rhymes that poets woo,

Breathing dream-lyrics in moon-measures rich.

 

Night holds me with a horror of the grave

That knows not poetry, nor song, nor you;

Nor leaves of love that down the ages wave

Romance and fire in burnished cloths of blue.

 

Oh, bury me in books, and I'll not mind

The cold, slow worms that coil around my head;

Since my lone soul may turn the page and find

The lines you wrote to me, when I am dead.

 

Zora  Cross,1917

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Australia in England

                                         by Zora Cross

He called….The quiet nurse stole to his side,
Seeing how with his hands he strove to hide
Dull tears, that from his mother's breast had sprung
And stayed in his because he was so young.
He spoke. "How long must I breathe England's air
When the home-hills are calling me out there?"
She leaned to him the pity of her soul,
For the Death-drums beat out a muffled toll.
April was laughing in the English lanes,
Daintily scornful of his soldier-pains.
April was whistling of a lover-band;
But his closed eyes were in another land…………
O, the lark, soaring up the English sky,
Had sung him home to meet the curlew's cry…….
He smiled……The little nurse bent over him-
Blue eyes unmisted with a memory dim-
And, moving gently from the dead apart,
She heard his green hills singing in her heart.
 

Zora Cross (1917)1917 (1017) 

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