I know a creek, a little creek
Hid in a hill’s embraces,
Where they who still for Beauty seek
May find her lingering traces.
The willows, with long tresses bent,
Shadow the water over;
The air has caught a mystic scent —
Well, yes! perhaps it’s clover!
I know a beach, a little beach
Of snowy sand, bespangled
With jewels, quaintly carven; each
In strange sea-growths entangled;
The wavelet softly breaks and curls,
Singing in broken trebles,
And stirs the opals and the pearls
—— Of course they may be pebbles!
I know a song, a lovely song,
One happy thought expressing;
I hear it rising, full and strong,
The listening air caressing.
No mortal knows so rare a tone,
Nor lark in raptures airy;
Some spirit ’tis that calls my own
—— They say it’s only Mary!
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, pages 226-227