|
In memory of our young days ashine With dreams, when life was yet an opening rose, Take, Alice dear, this little book of mine, All made of dreams and dying sunset-glows, A lonely bird that singeth far apart— Yet shall sing sweeter in its home, thy heart. |
|
Almost all the verses contained in this volume were first published in the Sydney Bulletin. I wish to thank the editor and proprietor of this journal for their kindness in allowing me to reprint. Other verses appeared in the Sydney Mail, Sydney Freeman’s Journal, Melbourne Table Talk, and Melbourne Punch. To these journals also my thanks are due.
V.J.D. |