Fathercraft
Well (said the small, meek man) we look for change
In this sad world, for these are stirring days;
And men pin hopes to methods new and strange
And see lost happiness thro' altered ways.
And I, who many a bitter cup have quaffed,
Hailed with delight this cult of Fathercraft.
But (said the small, meek man) I've scanned the rules
And studied well all that this author says,
Oh, I have pinned such faith to modern schools,
Hoping one day to see a great light blaze.
And now, it seems, I'm rather at a loss;
For all I glean is that the wife should be boss.
If (said the small, meek man) yielding one's pay,
Yielding one's will, seems new to Fathercraft,
And letting woman have her own sweet way;
Then (said the small, meek man) the author's daft!
I had such hopes! But, far as I can see,
Things go on in the same old way. Ah, me!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Melba
Born to the sun and smiling skies,
And bird-songs to the morning flung,
To joyousness that never dies
In hearts that stay for ever young
'Twas here, beneath the shining trees,
She paused to learn the magic rune
Of those unlaboured ecstasies
That keep a weary world in tune.
The grey thrush fluting by the nest,
The golden whistler trilling high
Their gifts she captured and expressed
In magic notes that may not die.
Then to the old, grey world she gave,
Exultingly, at Art's command,
In songs that live beyond the grave,
Her message from a bright, young land.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Yarrawonga
Yarrawonga by herself
Lived too long upon a shelf
She a stolid farmer's wife.
Far remote from modern strife
Drowsily beside her door
Dreamed of hectic days long o'er.
Yarrawonga dreamed in peace,
Watched her flocks and herds increase,
Drugged by wealth she sleepier grew,
Scorned the strenuous and new,
Scorned all haste and modern ways,
Yet oozed contentment all her days.
Yarrawonga now awakes,
And a sudden interest takes
In the schemes of eagr men,
Who'd restore her youth again
Who'd renew a youth half lost
And, at her contentment's cost,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Drama
Ah, well, the thing that lived lives on,
And who are we to say it nay?
When Vandal and when Goth had gone,
Long, long beyond great Caesar's day,
The Arts that sought for heights sublime,
Still scaled Olympus, scorning time.
And we who tread this little earth,
Seeking for profit or for fame,
And count one life's poor efforts worth
The meed of all the world's acclaim -
How do we count? What do we bring
To earth's great final reckoning?
Oh, are we not as little boys
Striving to conquer sea and air,
Playing a while with futile toys
To fight the bogey of despair?
While, in the end, invention's lure
Finds us relief - but never cure.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Satin Bower-Bird
Spare a bloom of blue, lady,
To adorn a bower.
A violet will do, lady
Any azure flower.
Since we hold a dance to-day,
We would make our ball-room gay,
Where the scented grasses sway.
And the tall trees tower.
Beautiful but shy, lady,
Yesterday we came
Dropping from the sky, lady,
Flecks of golden flame
Golden flame and royal blue
We have come to beg of you
Any scrap of heaven's hue
For our dancing game.
Spare us but a leaf, lady,
If our suit be spurned
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Golden Whistler
Golden bird whose golden voice,
When the summer days wax long
Cheery optimist from choice
Bids the feathered world rejoice
With full many a varied song
From the tree-tops flinging free
Golden bursts of melody.
Golden notes for golden hours
Where the sunlit waters gleam,
And the fragrant wattle flow'rs
Swoon in scented golden show'rs
To the bosom of the stream,
Singing, swinging, fluting high
None so gay, so glad as I.
Golden in the dawn's first hush
Sounds my matin, loud and long,
With a sweet, spontaneous rush,
Vying with harmonious thrush
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Banana's Lullaby
When grandma wished to keep her fruit
Her apples she would take
And put them on a bed of straw
At rest, but wide awake;
But newer days have newer modes,
And now, that it may keep,
They give an orange opiates
And sing it off to sleep.
And they're telling bedtime stories to bananas,
And rocking little raspberries to rest.
They will dope an apple silly,
And it wakes in Piccadilly
From a beauty sleep that makes it look its best.
It seems a heartless kind of trick
To play on helpless pears;
To lull them off to slumberland
And soothe their nervous cares,
Only to wake them up again,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Lips Of Ages
Down thro' the ages these same sticks
Have played on man their knavish tricks.
Down thro' the ages these false lips
Have been as blessings or as whips
To scourge poor man to actions rash
In waging wars or wasting cash.
Down thro' the years, when Adam grieves,
Look to those painted lips of Eve's.
Once, modesty suggested stealth
In simulating glowing health;
But now, alas, no shame restrains
Toilets performed in trams, in trains,
At table; for these candid days
Make nothing of the frank displays
Of carmine, lard and lanoline
To make plain Jane a beauteous queen.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Ballarat
The digger's cultured daughter:
Her youth was wildly free.
Now by the placid water
Of tree-girt Wendouree
She walks, a gracious lady,
Where sculptured beauty gleams
By verdant paths and shady,
And dreams her golden dreams.
Her father was a digger,
Bearded and blunt and crude,
His hand quick to the trigger
Should tyranny intrude.
With lifts of sudden riches
He heaped his hoyden lass,
Whose flowering new bewitches
With beauty all who pass.
For she has sown her gardens
To hide the scars of greed,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Lovers
One idle hour she sought to see
Whose image 'twas he cherished so
(All fondly certain whose 'twould be),
And found - a girl she did not know.
A trusty maiden's modest face,
All innocence and purity.
'What nun is this that fills my place?
Alas, he loves me not!' sighed she.
'Nay, daughter, let no foolish fears
Your trust in his devotion mar,'
Her mother said. 'Come, dry your tears;
That is the girl he thinks you are.'
All fondly curious with love
(Half guessing what he would lay bare)
He rifled her heart's treasure trove,
And found - a stranger's image there.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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