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