A Sprig of Mint.
A sprig of mint, an herb of lowly sort
For homely usages designed, and yet
When I have pressed a leaf, in idle sport
Between my fingers, straight I am beset
By haunting childish memories, on a wet
And fragrant bank of mint I lie, athwart
The creek, the snowy ti-tree blooms are met,
And fleets of fallen petals are in port;
An elfin charm is filtered through the air,
A hum of cloistered gnats in emerald cells
With drowsy chantings that the gadflies share,
And this sad heart that on a sudden swells
At the remembered fragrance was it there
And did it lie and dream as fancy tells?
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, page 244