‘I will bring you love’, said the young lover,
‘A glad light to dance in your dark eye.
Pendants I will bring of the white bone,
And gay parrot feathers to deck your hair.’
But she only shook her head.
‘I will put a child in your arms,’ he said,
‘Will be a great headman, great rain-maker.
I will make remembered songs about you
That all the tribes in all the wandering camps
Will sing forever.’
But she was not impressed.
‘I will bring you the still moonlight on the lagoon,
And steal for you the singing of all the birds;
I will bring the stars of heaven to you,
And put the bright rainbow into your hand.’
‘No’, she said, ‘bring me tree-grubs.
Takayuki Ikkaku, Arisa Hosaka and Toshihiro Kawabata
The Maitland Mercury & Hunter River General Advertiser (NSW : 1843 – 1893), Saturday 19 August 1871
"Be true to yourself. You just have the same problem that all talented, ambitious people have. We want to be everything and do everything all at once, but you can’t. Just know the one thing you really are in heart and spirit, and let everything else be your diversions."
Mira, Lady Kasdamir Gerran, "Human, Beware!" (p.145)
PHOTO – KATI B IN BILAMBIL MAY 2006.
I was standing next to the open gate. I had only to move forward. It was like stepping out into space.
Perseverance is a great element of success. If you only knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
foto – gate of the old church at castlereagh. rev fulton i presume. march 2010.
A road to a friend’s house is never long.
foto – path to the river hawkesbury at castlereagh
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.
foto – on the hill of bilambil cottage above the valley and the coral sea in march 2006 on the border between queensland and nsw
Emily Dickinson. [1830-1886] INDIAN SUMMER.
I stand in the bloom of the withered hour
and save up a drop of resin for a late bird:
it carries a flake of snow on a life-red feather;
the grain of ice in its beak, it will get through the summer.
VIVIAN SMITH 1995
foto – last rose of summer in ulmarra 2010 feb.