Chapter 142925944

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Chapter Number
Chapter Title
Chapter Urlhttp://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article142925944
Full Date1910-05-21
Page Number52
Corrections0
Word Count1033
IllustratedN
Last Corrected1970-01-01
Newspaper TitleThe Australasian (Melbourne, Vic. : 1864 - 1946)
Trove TitleA Dream Interludeq
article text

VJSNETTES.

A DREAM INTERLUDE.

Bv M. FORREST.

I -at down tu write a business letter; but

on *.iie terrace a band was playing, and. ' naturally enough. 1 wandered off in a dream ' of you. A gusty wind brought a tale of. flower dallying, and there was sun redden- ? ing on the blossoms by the empty church— , blossoms, and a mystery of acacia boughs. The shy was patched with cloud, a sky as blue as are your eyes sometimes, stirred by a sudden thought.

They might Lave deepened with a smile jesterday if you had seen me after you left, pressing my fingers tight over my mouth to keep your kiss there! Such a little kiss! Light as a fluff of thistledown, cast by an unthinking wind, or as the brush of a swallow's wing, flirting with a lifting

wave.

0! my dear! That little kiss was the seed of much meditation. One day last week a

heavy rain-storm pelted the ranges, a blan ket of vapour blotted out the red-roofed house, the unsteady line of trees on the level hills, recollections of sunset pinks I had watched there the night before between the ragged palms, the spires of the cathedral, the pale-green sky-ocean low down, the ruddy wi-p of floating cloud above, blotted out. givv everywhere — and you cold and hard and all my life colour less Suddenly the veil of rain

was rent, the cloud "curtain rolled back,1 and there was a wedge of gold be tween. Perhaps I thought your smile will again some day weave a gleaming thread into the grey for me—perhaps.

The gold died, the night softened the' black sharpness of wet roofs, the sodden, pain; fronds lashed the roof of the veran- j dah. not a star. ' I

If so slight a thing as your smile, so light j a thing as your kiss, can make sun or cloud j for me. why—why withhold them? Which i praises God most—a heart full of gratitude, eyes that see the faint green ceioihg of the leaf, the pollen-dusted flower-spear, the ? jetty cup of the scarlet hibiscus, the cas-; cade of "bloom high on the small round- .' leaved bauhlnia—soul that sees and could

take and caress each fragile blossom, each ' wonder of leaf workmanship for very joy of life—or the sullen grief that, shut into the

mind, blinds the eves to the wild green • beauty of rock-thrashing wave, the pale fair distance of hills, the light shining through : a slim grass blade, the fairy imprints of tiny 1 w;!d flowers in the grass? Do vou remem-j ber the legend of the monk w^o Lad no tune; within him, yet sang and sang, in his un-: musical drone, the praise oi God? His fel-; lows laughed at him, the man who' deemed himself a nightingale. yet croaked as a very crow, and then the word that came in a vision, 'twas his chanting alone that reached to the ears of God, while the voice of the silver-tongued monk, thinking but of the sweetness of his melody, failed to pierce beyond the bars of earth. 5*0 if the heart makes pecn. though the lips be still, does not Nature and a God (which Browning's dear old Pope Innocent averred were one and the same), does not He bear?

My matured brain has a whimsical way of contradicting my early traditions on mai ters of doctrine, but I can imagine a state when your God could have been my God.

Did not Byron say "I am always more

religious on a sunshiny day."' I can only contemplate myself as having "found re ligion" when you make sunlight in my soul. That, I presume you would opine, is ho true Christianity. So be it. Do you suppose I can change myself any more than a salvia bud, by taking thought, could grow into a euchanst lilv? There are many roads per chance to Heaven. Your hand to bold mine is my only way.

We grope blind-angered in the dark. The roada to hell, I fancy are lamp-lit. We know. Only for each, the lamps show

different ways.

Perhaps the most to be desired end to this intermittent torture called life is that craved by "Martin. Luigi," who "Implora

pace."

A state impossible for me to realise! "Eterna quiete." The everlasting sleep under the whispering grasses, where the drowsy brown bee bathes in a surf of bloB som, where the vagrant butterfly—such

frail envelope to bold the spark: of life denied to the cold thing couched below—is dandled on a -flower-top. I cannot realise that. I am sure on such a day as this, when the sun chases the shadow, arid life is stored in the fresh wind, I should shake off my earth mould and go looking for you!

I fancy there are some things not hid

from all. T feel that there are no old bone* to make in jne—that I must toil while there is ret light—so I want your smile and your kisses to thread about my heart, then, when J go down to the grave, like glow-worms in the dusk, these old memories fif memory there be in the House of Sleep) will li^ht the violet roots for rue, and bring a hint of heart-shapen leaf, and of the iueense that the flowers

hide.

And O. I grudge your robbing me of one of my jewel lamps! When you have been gentle to me, of times I dread seeing you again—in fear lest you should spoil the last impression by curt word or impatient look. Out goes the little flame the kind hand lit. and so much blacker is the night for one star gone. The band has left the terrace. I don't think there were many sixpences about this morning; there is only the flute of the wiud in the branches now, pepperina ana Moreton Bay fig,

poinciaua. and drooping fir.

Up leaps the claim of the business letter.

" We twain have heard Time's fingers play

The steady march of serious mood; • But . . . Can we ever quite forget The drettniag Of the interlude."