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.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-memories-they-bring/
