Walter Murdoch (1874–1970). The Oxford Book of Australasian Verse. 1918.
By Sydney Jephcott52 . White Paper
S
Richest field that iron ploughs,
Germinating thoughts of men,
Tho’ no heaven its rain allows.
And our spirits reap the corn,
In a day-long dream of gold—
Food for all the souls unborn.
When we listen stooping low,
Like sap singing nature’s mirth
Foaming up the trees that grow.
Sings the pen unto it, while
Fluid idea flows along,
Each new Era’s mother-Nile.
For it holds the sea and land;
Seed of every deed to be
Down its current borne like sand.
Holding thee the Absolute;
Where the things to be inhere,
Waiting their material bruit.
Were too dull to smutch thy white!
I’ll aver: no lily’s bud
Lays such unction on my sight.
Bliss embodied to the touch,
Has not such ambrosial charm—
Not a marble Goddess such!
Palpitates with spirit-heat—
Only on thy whiteness may
Seers translate its rhythms sweet!
Were a rack of ruined cloud
Stripping from our orbit vast,
But thou Eternity endowed
Life of life by death distilled—
That all dateless days shall reach,
As life’s vine of veins is filled.
By Cadmean souls of yore
From pure element of Thought!
And thy leaves their silvern door!
Past the sovereignty of Fate;
Glad among Them, still and grand,
The Creators and Create!