Daddy’s Boy
If God should come to me and say –
“Come take my hand, my child
I’ll lead you to a leafy way
Where primroses grow wild,
And roses blush and lilies blow,
And violets are blue
And nothing ever withers, no,
Not all the long year through!”
If God should come to me, and smile
And tell me of a place
Where streams go tumbling all the while
And leaves make a shadow-lace
Where sunlight falls upon the ground,
And all the squirrels are tame,
And kittens haven’t to be drowned,
And nobody is lame:
If God should say, “Come child, and bask
In my sun. I’m wanting you.”
Would it be wrong to stop and ask
If Daddy’s coming too?
And would God think me awfully rude
If he couldn’t and I’d say –
“I thank you, God, you’re awfully good,
But I’ll come another day.”
Daffodil
Whenever I see a daffodil
For me the sun is shining.
No matter if skies be gray or chill
I cannot go repining,
For Spring’s young sprites delight to fill
This cup of God’s designing,
Tip-tilted, so it needs must spill
The sunshine ‘twas confining.
So let the air be wild or still
This golden cup enshrining –
Whenever I see a daffodil
For me the sun is shining.
Daffodil Thoughts
O sing! O, shout the glad refrain –
Never mind the wind, the rain –
The daffodils are out again!
‘Tis only lovely Lady Spring
Doth golden cups and sauces bring
For mortal quaffing – Sing, O sing!
. . .
Tell me, is there anyone
Who can resist, when all is done,
These golden children of the sun?
. . .
All praise to Him, who doth distil
The essence of the sun, to fill
For men, these cups of daffodil.
Daffodils In An English Glade
Daffodils …
Not growing in ordered rows,
but crowding each other in the grass
and nodding when the wind blows,
nodding to me as I pass…
Beneath an oak
in dappled sun and shade,
catching the gold of the sunlight’s gleams…
daffodils in an English glade
nodding to me in dreams.
Dance of the Raindrops
I love the sound of the pattering feet
Of the raindrops along the street,
As they dance on the roof, as they dance in the lane –
I love the dancing feet of the rain!
And at night, when everyone else is asleep,
The pattering feet of the raindrops keep
Me company all the long night through –
I love the dance of the rain – don’t you?
Daphne to Theophilus
The sadder thing is not that you grow cold,
Theophilus, and weary of our play,
And multiply my faults a thousandfold,
Unhalo me, your goddess of a day.
To find and hold and satisfy a god
For but a day could make all years worth while.
A journey of a myriad metres trod
Could be redeemed by one celestial mile.
But this is sadder - that the scales should fall
From my unwilling eyes, that I should see
That you, alas, were not a god at all
Save in my faith in you, and yours in me
The saddest thing is not that love should die
But that it had no wings . . . no wings to fly.
Dorothea Spears
Dawn at Dedoorns
A line of silver in the East
Behind the blue-gum trees
Just where the mountains meet the sky
A fresh, dawn-scented breeze;
The twitter of a thousand birds,
A ripple on the pool,
Then – silence – while the whole world waits
And drinks the scented cool:
Till slowly from his hilly couch
Against the brightening sky
The late sun lifts a stately head
And winks a golden eye.
Then like a shining arrow sped
Into the valley’s heart,
The first swift ray of sunlight gleams
And pierces with its dart
The slumbering orchard, heavy eyed,
And ruthlessly doth rape
The bloom of sleep from each full cheek
Of white and garnet grape.
The farmer’s whistle greets the light
In some care-free refrain;
The world has shed the veil of sleep –
The day is here again!
“Dawn”, Silwood Road
Rondebosch, Capetown
Dawn Lines
I probe it with the finger of the mind,
This yet unopened parcel of the day.
Already outer wrappings start to fray,
Revealing something of what lies behind.
As one by one I break the hours that bind
The unknown contents, trifles grave or gay
And opportunities (oft thrown away),
And − sun and rain . . . what values shall I find?
I think each day should be unwrapped with prayer,
Untied the hours, and valued well each token, −
Lest what is precious should be soiled or broken,
The days should be unpacked with greater care
And tidily, words spoken, words unspoken
For one day we shall find death waiting there.
Dorothea Spears
Dawn song
Oh Day, go back to sleep . . .
Tuck your head back under the wings of night
And close your bright and all-too-eager Eyes.
We are not ready yet to face the light.
Let us remain concealed a little longer,
Trumpets stilled, and flaunting banners furled
Until our will to wake is a little stronger.
We are not ready yet to face the world.
Oh clamorous Day, go back to sleep again,
For we are tired, very tired, we men.
Dorothea Spears
Dawn Thoughts
Here, in the moment of silence drifting through
The dawning consciousness, all sound is sleeping.
How rich this moment is, And I, too,
Who have this prescient silence in my keeping.
Here, in this moment of time that I have caught
But cannot hold within my mortal hand,
Incipient eternity is wrought
Could I but see and sense and understand.
Within myself I touch the face of space
And feel infinity and thrill to know
That I am held within this vast embrace
Wherever I may stay or come or go.
And I am shaken and elate to sense
Myself infinitesimal, immense.
Dorothea Spears.
Days
Full often I have dance with them,
The merry days,
Companioned them light-heartedly
Through many ways
From dawn till midnight, then to bid adieu
And greet the new day with love as true.
Days gowned in blue and green, and decked
With fairest flowers;
Laughing days, that flew too soon
With many sunny hours:
Together we have danced and laughed and played
And journeyed, joyfully and unafraid:
Days garbed in grey and black, and full
Of heavy tears:
I took their hands just as they came
A-down the years.
We were such friends, the passing days and I,
All too quickly did the days dance by.
But now they pause and look at me
With eyes askance.
A little sadly now they look,
I do not dance.
My heart is heavy, now with uneased pain:
They hold their lovely hands to me in vain.
They tarry now, that used to fly
On silver wing.
They walk sedately, now with me.
The moments cling.
They are as beautiful, but my heart tires
So quickly now, with its unfilled desires.
At dusk they don their evening gowns
Of flame and gold,
Of wine and amber, crimson, pink,
Just as of old;
And fling their spangled evening cloaks about
Their pretty shoulders when the sun goes out.
I used to bid them stay; but now –
I question once
And turn away, because they give
But one response.
The days drop sorry heads, and full of rue
Go sadly, for they bring no word from you.
De Waal Drive
What have we done to the beauty of your night,
Dear God, dear God? How garish glares the way
That we are wending with the ending day!
We burn your beauty in the harsh, the bright,
The artificiality of light.
How can we hear the lovely things You say
So softly in this arrogant display
That stuns all sensitivity of sight?
Our man-made brilliance blinds our dazzled eyes.
Determinedly we dominate the scene . . .
Our sound, our light, insistent and demanding.
The lonely moon, discarded, climbs the skies
And bathes the earth in beauty, still, serene −
Your peace, dear God, that passes understanding.
Dorothea Spears
Dead-heading the roses
Dead-heading the roses
And gathering
Their crumpled fragrance
To retain …
I wished
I could cleanly cut
The brown-edged petals of your pain
To leave you free to bloom again.
Deaf
The exquisite beauty of Silence stems from this-
It is an island in a lake of Sound
Whose vital waves forever lap and kiss
The sanctuary which they feed and bound.
Across the lake we travel to and fro,
Communication hold with fellow men:
But if the water should no longer flow
And sound recede beyond our reach – what then?
Bereft of its life-giving force, bereft
Of means of intercourse, in captivation
The dweller on this island would be left,
In an unutterable isolation.
How silence, then assumes a different shape –
A prison from which there is no escape!
For Deaf Week
“Veritas”
Welbeloondweg, Constantia
Death has a kind face
I Have no Quarrel with Death
For I have looked upon his face
And found it friendly.
I have fear of the time beyond time
It is the time in time
Would make me afraid.
The captive time
For which I hold the key,
Whose responsibility is laid
Upon me, the threescore years
And ten (or less or more)
To be accounted for
The minutes and hours and days of earth.
I have been a lover of life . . .
But Death has a kinder face than Birth.
Dorothea Spears
Death Is No Adversary
Death is no adversary, no all-conquering foe.
Death is the unseen hand that opens the shadowy door
Between my soul and the souls that have gone before.
Death unlatches the gate of flesh that prisons me:
I shall fare forth elate, untrammelled at last, and free
To wander the hills of Space, to see to hear, to know.
Deciduous
Were I a tree, I should not care to be
An evergreen, forever clad and seen,
Forever conscious of the sap that flows
Through every hour, and comes and goes and knows.
Give me to sense the Spring, when everything
Is new and rife with tender vibrant life
That trembles into being, into bliss -
What loss it were to miss a kiss like this.
The joy of branch and root in flower and fruit,
And summer sun, and rich completion won.
And then the languid mood when leaves are wooed
By Autumn winds . . . and that sweet solitude
Of Winter, when the wearied senses keep
A truce with Time, surrendering to sleep,
Were I a tree, I should not care to be
An evergreen, forever clad and seen.
Give me the joyful pain, the sun, the rain;
The dark and light, the giving and the taking;
The day and night, the sleeping and the waking;
And heaven and earth, the crying and the mirth;
The seasons, and the dying, and the birth
Deciduous trees
(Kensington Gardens)
While there are trees to lose their leaves
Like these,
And etch their tracery
Of twigs against a dappled sky
Of gray and lapis lazuli.
To paint long shadows on the grass
To mark Time's passing by -
While there are Winter trees to sleep
And keep their secret deep -
Although Death seems
To triumph
Faith will never die . . .
Nor men's dreams.
Dorothea Spears
Dedication
This is the day of dedication.
It is good that we should pause,
Individually and as a nation,
And check our code by the eternal laws.
Let us be still…
Insistent heart and clamorous mind
And wayward will…
Perhaps within the silence we may find
The Living Word
Behind our babel, waiting to be heard;
The Living Light
To quench the little fires that have misled us with
Their small desires
And lead us wisely through the night.
Individually and as a nation
To God the Spirit and to Christ the Soul
And man the creature; to the triune Whole
Lets make anew our dedication.
Demolition (Constantia)
For many years I have known these dwelling places,
These unpretentious walls beside the road
With curtained eyes and clean familiar faces,
And every one some family's abode.
And then, one day, the pitiful roofs concealing
The private rooms where people had been born
And lived and died had been removed, revealing
The houses secrets, naked and forlorn.
Poor empty shells that once were full of laughter!
Next time I passed each dwelling was a pile
Of broken blocks. (What happens to ghosts after
The wreckers have done away with their domicile?)
The people who lived in the houses, perhaps they'll be
As happy in Bosheuvel. Perhaps . . . Would we?
Dorothea Spears
Desecration
We have desecrated His Temple with merchandising.
Nothing remains sacred. Nothing remains.
Even the human ties and the Holy days
Are festivals of barter more than praise.
Who cultivates the earth for the love of man
Or the love of God? Now no man tends his sheep
To clothe his fellows, but to line his pockets.
The standard that measures the value man maintains
Is not what good one does, but how it pays,
And all the knowledge vouchsafed man to keep
Is turned to a single channel in the end,
By "righteous" nations and by "righteous" men
The urge to get, to keep, and to defend.
The old indictment stands the ages through −
Should He not scourge us from His Temple, too?
Dorothea Spears.
(29.5.57)
Destructive Criticism
This cold wind blows forever.
There are sheltered flowers, I think, that never
Feel this freezing breath,
And some are blown to strive and thrive
Against the blast … For others it is death
And many an aspiring flower
Is marred and marked and blighted by this heedless needless power.
It is a colour that permeates
The purity of unadulterated colour, stains
All air with earth, mates
All fire with water, blends all balms with banes
It is a discordant note,
Insistent and incessant,
Inhibiting the harmony within creation’s throat.
It is a repetitive vibration,
Unyielding, acquiescent,
That shakes all sensitivity to its foundation.
Different
What shall I say?
How every day
Is different from another?
How every place
And every face
Differs from every other?
How can you know
My thought, who go
A different way?
How can you meet
My meaning, walking a different street?
Dorothea Spears
Dilemma
Marjoram and lavender, rosemary and rue;
Skies that go veiled in grey; skies of soft blue;
Harebell and buttercup, hedges sweet with dew
Call me, Diana, to England - and you.
Protea and disa, gleaming chincherinchee;
Bold skies and laughing eyes, rolling blue sea;
Tiny Afrikanders, arums, sliver tree,
Hold me, Margrieta, to Africa and thee.
What ever shall I do, for I can’t have the two –
And whichever it be I’ll regret it -ah me!
19.12.30
Dorothea Botha
Disillusion
Who would have thought a day and a half could make
Such difference? While I have been away
The pattern of the flowers along the wall
Disintegrates: the clematis that hung
Like stars along a milky way have fallen
From their sky. The rhododendrons have the air
Of the morning after a night before and wear
Their finery frayed.
The flaming orange poppies, eager to please
The lusting breeze, have done their vain striptease
And cannot don again for another year
Their lovely frocks. And worst of all - I fear
My roseate spectacles have been mislaid
And I can’t be sure how much of the change I see
Is in the garden, and how much in me!
Dorothea Spears
Disillusion
I know now that you did not ever live
At all, save in the precincts of my heart.
I built you out of dreams. ‘Twas I did give
You life, and made you of myself a part.
And you, a brilliant actor, spoke the lines
So well that I have given you I deemed
You real, and wilfully ignored the signs
That should have warned me years ago I dreamed.
When you would fall from my ideal of you
I patched you up again with bits of me
And never realised the false and the true
Until today. So ends the Comedy.
How strange to stand apart now, and recall
The You I worshipped never lived at all.
“Oaklands”
Newlands Ave
District Six
To-day will become to-morrow.
No use, now, to pray
For time to stay the ultimatum;
No use, now, to say
It cannot happen . . .
We can no longer borrow hope
To solace this unbearable sorrow.
This earth where we were born
And lived and died rejects us now
And we must bow to this rejection,
Learn somewhere, somehow
To live some other way.
For us tomorrow has become to-day.
Dorothea Spears
17.1.1969
Do not believe men
Do not believe men when they tell you
Age is kind.
Do not think the rosy apple
Doesn’t mind a wrinkled skin
Or that the blown rose
Is blind to the blemished petals,
Or autumned trees unconscious
Of change within,
Of falling sap that weakens
The will of leaf and limb
To persevere, of waning power
To bring to birth or bind,
Sensing the unforgivingness
Of the irretrievable hour . . .
Do not believe men when they tell you
Age is kind.
Dorothea Spears
Do not cry now
There will be plenty of time for tears tomorrow
And the day after and the day after
And the day after
Plenty of time for sorrow.
Today let there be laughter!
Do not waste this present beauty that beckons
With outstretched arms.
Only the penurious soul reckons
Today tomorrow or yesterday’s harms.
There will be plenty of time
When the roses have faded
And the snow is flying.
Do not cry now . . .
There will be time for tears when the year’s dying.
Dorothea Spears,
19.11.66
Do Not Minimise Man
Man, of all creatures, has no need
To be imprisoned in a carapace
Of time and place and circumstance.
Man, of all creatures, has the chance
To hold all time and space in his hand.
Expand his consciousness to enfold
The universes, spread the wings
Of thought to encompass beggars and kings
And past and present and future and all
The kingdom of nature, and understand
The vital synthesis of things.
The vaster the environment
The more momentous is man who can,
Of all creation, scan and plan
Music and art and beauty and love
Hand in glove with immensity –
Infinitesimal … and grand.
Man, of all creatures, has the power
To destroy himself and his world in an hour.
What a responsibility
To be a man, to be you or me!
10/11/1970
Do not shut the door
Do not shut the door to joy
When Sorrow seeks priority
And Grief usurps the place of honour in the heart
Reserved for Joy before,
And thoughts walk tiptoe lest they start
Old memory and newer loss to weeping,
Or waken pain too deep from sleeping:
Do not draw the mind's blinds,
Do not shut the door
When Joy comes tapping timidly
To seek a place once more --
For Joy will hold Grief's hand
For comfort if the heart can understand.
Dorothea Spears.
Do not wait
Do not wait till Autumn comes to praise
The delicate loveliness of these Spring days.
Do not wait till Spring is on the wing
To bring belated tribute to each lovely thing.
Nor wait till fruit is hanging heavy on the bough
To hymn the loveliness of here and now.
Do not wait till the year has grown austere
To realise the beauty of this now and here.
Dorothea Spears