Gaolbirds
Season after season the vineyards change…
Light green, dark green,
Russet and brown
The colours range
With blue and yellow lupins in between…
Tempestuous and still,
Season after season I look down
From my house on the side of the hill:
But always, Winter and Summer
Autumn and Spring
Are scarlet birds in the vineyards,
Birds that do not sing.
Veritas
Constantia C.P.
Garden in the South
Season by season I see this garden grow.
I see the autumn stealing across the hills
In May, painting the foliage that fills
The day with colour; and winter come and go,
Spreading narcissi and lilies instead of snow;
Have watched in August how the sun spills
Across this patch of earth in daffodils:
And the joy of blossom trees in Spring I know,
And the blue of the sky-loved pool, the cool delight
Of water on naked flesh; and trees; and the mirth
Of birds; and the constant miracle of birth
And metamorphosis, and day and night . . .
I think I shall never be nearer to heaven on earth.
Dorothea Spears
28.1.1969
Gardening
Gardening, my friend is not
The occupation I would recommend
For pacifists.
Though a sense of life deplores the fact
Of murder, there’s a pact man has to keep
If he would reap the beauty of a garden.
This lovely morning it has been my lot
To liquidate some scores of predators
That otherwise would strip my citrus trees
Of all their glossy foliage, which I prize.
And every morning I must make the rounds
To see what alien creatures infiltrate
My grounds, and play the executioner –
A role which I despise
(Especially with nice, soft, timid
Friendly creatures such as mole and mice)
But that’s the price Man has to pay
If he would not betray the beauty waiting
His co-operation for release;
And though he looks with wonder on the snail
In its coat of mail and stoops to recognise
Its creature kinship, he must still
Translating act to fact work out the will within
Which animates each separate life of earth
From birth…
Gardening, my friend, is not
An occupation I should recommend
To pacifists.
GAUDIUM LABORIS
Here lies the root of present discontent:
That we have lost the joy of labour, pride
In work well done; that we have deified
False gods and sacrificed the old God-sent
Satisfaction in accomplishment.
Mistaking ends for means, we have decried
Endeavour, made Reward our only guide,
And squandered talents life had only lent.
Serenity, that’s born of contemplation,
We barter for the
jangled strains of swing :
Become dependant on the external thing.
We lose the sense of pure exhilaration
That leaves no bitter aftermath, no sting—
The happiness inherent in creation
Geneva
Four men … and in their silent hands they hold
The power of life and death; the height and girth
Of consciousness, destruction, and rebirth;
The shaping or the breaking of the mould
In which man’s life is poured. May they be bold
To shield the future from the present dearth
And lay foundations for the new earth
In which our latent godhood may unfold.
“There is a power that maketh all things new:
It dwells in those who know the self as one,”…
Mankind or man… the hierarchal view.
Before our planet courts oblivion
May we imbibe the vision of the Few,
Acknowledge oneness in the Father-Son.
And see all.
“Veritas”
Constantia, C.P.
Geophysical Year
Who knows what consequence might come from this
Adventure of the scientific mind,
This first united effort of mankind,
Detached, to view the planet as it is?
We must be very careful not to miss
The hidden truth that always lies behind
The manifested symbol . . . we might find
The secret of the greater synthesis'.
We might reach an unexpected goal
And glimpse the ultimate vision that could bind
And blend these separate cells so blind
Into the Being of the Greater Whole;
Achieve the destiny long since designed
And find, at last, our planetary soul.
Dorothea Spears
Ghosts
The woodland ways are sodden now
With the fallen leaves of the years.
The paths we walked are trodden now
By the ghosts of our laughter and tears.
Ghosts of our laughter, mocking, light,
Haunting visions of lost delight,
Ghosts of our fears,
Ghosts of our tears
Follow us, crying, through the night.
The ghosts of our laughter mock us now
With the hollow ring of their mirth:
The ghosts of our sorrow shock us now
With the wailings that gave them birth.
Ghosts of our laughter, mocking, bright;
Of folly and wisdom, strange bedight;
Ghosts of our cheers,
Ghosts of our tears
Here them crying across the night?
Go Not, Oh Day
Slow in the west the lingering Daytime dies-
Go not, Oh Day, or else come quickly, Night!
I cannot brook this wistful, wan half-light,
This indolent hour of dusk, the hour of sighs,
Insistent with imperious memories:
Forgotten in the garish Daytime’s height
They cling and clamour when Day takes flight,
Old Memories with sad and wistful eyes.
They gather round me, crowding closely in,
And stir half-slumbering chords that start and wake,
To carol silent half-forgotten songs
Of happier days and hours that might have been.
Oh Day, go not; thy western tryst forsake,
And with thy light dispel these haunting throngs.
God and Spring
Where he walked across the hills
Behold a flock of daffodils!
And where He paused, beside the trees,
There nod the frail anemones.
Beside the ditch where He stood
The lily opens wide her hood.
And in the meadows where He treads
The daisies lift sun-dazzled heads.
Oh many erstwhile arid places
Shy veld flowers lift adoring faces.
And on the Flats where He did tarry
The trees a golden burden carry.
If He has dwelt within my heart
Should not the flowers of love upstart?
Should I not share this radiant thing –
The miracle of God and Spring?
Veritas
Constantia C.P.
God's-Eye View
I know that it is no new thought and yet
It is a potent one . . . the view men get
With distance . . . and especially with height:
The two sides of the shield for which they fight
Believing each his metal to be right
And loath to credit, unwilling to be told
One side is silver and the other gold
And on the mountain top the local hill
Which sides men from their neighbours shrinks to fill
Its insignificant and normal role
Within the greater panoramic whole . . . .
Once I glimpsed a God's view of the earth
Wherein was neither border, breed nor birth
Nor East nor West . . . and in that vaster view
All man's perspectives needed drawing new
Dorothea Spears
4.2.1956
God’s Birthday
The Christmas dusk is falling; the night-owls are
awake:
And God is lighting the candles upon His birthday
cake.
The trees are nodding together of gifts they have
planned to bring,
And the little birds are discussing the songs that they
mean to sing,
The gladdest songs of the season for the birthday of
their king!
The wise old mountains are mooning o’er birthdays
come and gone,
And wrinkling sage old brows as they say how the
world rolls on:
But none of them can remember when the candles numbered one.
The angels that hung their garments, so gossamer and
so white
To dry in the strong wind’s blowing and in the sun’s
strong light
Are taking them in from the sky with the coming of
the night
That we may see the candles as they twinkle and
dance and glow,
That all the world may see them, from tropics to
iceland snow.
But how many candles are lighted, ah none but
Himself may know.
The crickets have ceased their singing; the winds
are standing by:
The sea has hushed its moaning until it is but a sigh.
In the stillness of expectation the earth is watching
the sky.
Though many have sought to tell them, their infinite
numbers gage,
And many have tried to count them, nor seer, nor
grey-haired sage
have ever numbered the candles that would tell them
the Great King’s age.
The Christmas dusk is falling: the night owls are
awake:
And God is lighting the candles upon His birthday
cake.
God’s Story Hour
When setting sun has sealed the closed day
With molten wax of crimson or of gold,
And Night has not yet hidden it away
Beneath her darker manuscript unrolled,
And ere a single golden star is signed,
There comes a moment of expectant hush-
The birds are still, the crickets mute, the wind
Stands silently beside the laurel bush.
I know for what they wait. I listen too,
Enveloped in the same sweet mystic power.
And all the untamed children of the Blue
Draw round His knee – It is God’s story hour.
The trees fold their restless hands to hear
The Father’s low love-laden voice. The wise
Shy shadows, timid through the day, draw near
To clasp His hands and look into His eyes.
Enchantment deepens – “Once upon a time” –
And I am one with earth in ecstasy,
A-listen to the stories, sweet, sublime
Or sad… Sometimes He breathes of Calvary –
And then we hear the sobbing through the spheres,
And then it is that erring mortals say,
“The dew has fallen” …But it is the tears
God’s Nature children shed on such a day.
Good Friday
Yes, my Lord, I know.
It's not the personal pain
that hurts us so,
but the pain of all the world
in which we share
that sometimes seems to be more
than we can bear.
Dorothea Spears
Good Friday and Forever
There is a borderland of sleep wherein
One seems to neither wake nor sleep but keep
A conscious apart, a knowledge twin
To unreality… serene and deep.
Here, looking down as if from far and high
I saw in silhouette on earth’s rim
Three darkened crosses black against the sky,
Small figures grouped around where all was dim.
Upon the crosses three dead bodies hung,
Earth of earth, emitting no glimmer of light.
But against the backdrop of the sky was flung
A growing shape of luminescence bright
With rays of rainbow colours baffling sight;
Seeming at first a vague human shape
Losing the pattern as it glowed and spread
Discarding the body from which it escaped
(Why do we seek the living among the dead?)
Until it filled all… space, matter, mind:
The Being of God distilled in the being of Man
To permeate the being of all mankind,
Released by this death decreed since time began.
. . . .
Truth is what is, whatever be thought or said.
No matter if we believe in death or birth,
The seed in the soil, the leaven in the bread,
The Essence of Christ permeating earth:
The verities we are enveloped by
Will still function, accept them or deny.
Good Friday Thought
What better occupation for the heart
Than this, at such a season-
The burying of bulbs beneath concealing earth,
With ageless reason trust
The hidden life will thrust the dark apart
And stage a glorious re-birth.
Is it not an act
Of worship thus to toil and till
The soil, and plant a daffodil
And make of faith or fact?
. . .
Today, I think, are many hearts that need
To plant a seed.
Airlie Close
Constantia, C.P.
Good to Have a Garden
It's good to have a garden in the heart
Where sanctuary’s sure, whatever gales
May pull the pattern of the world apart.
Dorothea spears
Goodby
I am going away: good-bye my friend;
You may clasp my hand for a little longer,
And look in my eyes with a deeper glance,
And I shall go on my way the stronger.
You know that I love you, friend of mine;
And parting will bring us both sweet sorrow:
Nor you nor I shall need for a sign
When we meet again some bright to-morrow
To show that our friendship is just the same
It is as steadfast as yonder mountain,
For straight from the heart of God it came,
As fair and pure as a crystal fountain.
Then bid me good-bye once more, my friend,
A long good-bye, and a ‘God be with you.’
From deep in the garden of heart I send
The fairest of friendship’s flowers to give to you.
Transplant them with care to your garden fair,
Their roots near the margin of Love’s great river;
I know they will bloom, they will flourish there,
And bear your thoughts of the absent giver.
Dorothea Graham Botha
The Epworth Press
1925
Goodbye, my Friend
Goodbye, goodbye…
We shall shed no tears
You and I.
The ambient air will close the space
In space you occupied
While you were here
But I shall feel you near
I shall not cry
But rather sing a hymn of praise
For all the days
We had together.
I’ll not dim
Their memory with a sigh
For sorrow, only thankfulness –
Goodbye, my friend…
Goodbye.
Goodbye my son
Goodbye . . goodbye . . .
We shall shed no tears,
You and I.
The ambient air will close the place
In space you occupied
While you were here
But I shall feel you near.
I shall not cry
But rather sing a hymn of praise
For all the days
We had together.
I'll not dim
Their memory with a sigh
For sorrow, only thankfulness
Goodbye, my son.
Goodbye
Dorothea Spears
Gratitude
(To You, Whom Men Call Dead)
When I would question of my present worth,
Take stock of all the things I might have done,
The certain-seeming goals I might have won,
And view despondently, with waning mirth,
The potent dreams that have been stilled at birth
Nor ever grown to blossom in the sun.
Returning into limbo one by one
Wonder why I should encumber earth.
And then I think of you, and you, and you
Who soared, yet found in me some kindred wing
And chose my friendship from a world of men.
And then I know futility untrue
And this depression but an earth-born thing:
And your old faith is born in me again.
Dorothea Spears
Great Adventure
You say that all the continents are conquered?
You say that all the exploration's done
And the great adventuring is over?
The Great Adventure's only just begun!
Beyond the manifest, beyond the symbol,
Are undiscovered worlds for those who fare
To face the unknown with a faith unfailing,
The pioneers who vision, and who dare
To fling a bridge across the unknown oceans
Of mind and spirit till they reach a shore
Whereon the minds of men have never trodden −
To conquer it, and then go on once more;
Till, universes circumnavigated,
Unsealed the secrets of the earth and sky,
They close the circle where the circle started
And home within the everlasting I.
Dorothea Spears
Greater Things Than These
We who have lived for three score years and ten
Or near it, in this climax of an age,
Have seen the erstwhile scoffed at dreams of men
Become reality for fool and sage.
We tame the lightning, sound the stratosphere;
We don material wings and mount the sky
We turn a knob and tweak Time by the ear
And with a silver screen make distance a lie.
Yet we depend on props, material things;
Externalize, in our own coils are caught…
Tomorrow’s sons shall fly on will’s strong wings
And see and hear with antennae of thought.
Dare we, who watch this lap of Man’s great race,
Question his ultimate conquest of Time and Space?
Grief is brief
Grief is brief, they tell us. Oh,
Kiss the grief, and let it go!
Do not hold it nor enfold it.
Be it swift or be it slow.
Grief’s a flower. It will bloom
If we let it, in the tomb.
Grief’s a tune,
a melody
Written in a minor key . . .
Sense it, sing it... ah, who knows
Whence it comes or whither goes?
Beautiful as showers ... see . . .
Flowering in eternity