The Memories They Bring

I would never waste the hours     Of the time that is mine own,     Writing verses about flowers     For their own sweet sakes alone;     Gushing as a schoolgirl gushes     Over babies at their best,     Or as poets trill of thrushes,     Larks, and starlings and the rest.     I am not a man who praises     Beauty that he cannot see,     But the buttercups and daisies     Bring my childhood back to me;     And before lifes bitter battle,     That breaks lion hearts and kills,     Oh the waratah and wattle     Saw my boyhood on the hills.     It was Cissy or Cecilia,     And I loved her very much,     When I wore the white camelia     That will wither at a touch.     Ah, the fairest chapter closes     With lilies white and blue,     When the wild days with the roses     Cast their glamour over you!     Vine leaves fall and laurels wither     (Maddning drink and pride insane),     And the fate that sends us hither     Ever takes us back again.     Fading flowers, slow pulsations,     Flowers pressed for memory     But the red and pink carnations     Speak most bitter things to me.