Classic Poem

Gauntly waving their withered fronds to the kiss of the gentle breeze
That whispers over the granite waste and wanders down to the trees;
Calmly ignoring the emerald plains, and the rivers far below,
Drawing their life from the lichened stone, the africanders grow.

Theirs is no wealth of gorgeous bloom or scents that fill the vale,
No children gather garlands there, no bees or birds regale;
But (with long spaces in between), shyly, and half-afraid,
They crown themselves with the sweetest flow'rs that ever Nature made.

(Blossom of gold and cream and mauve, too tender to be pluck'd,
Heart of the fierce old mountain's heart by the sinuous rootlets suck'd;
Quiet in colour and faultless in form; delicate, frightened,—but free!
And the kindly breeze, as it passes by, clings to them lovingly.)

But the blossoms pass with the passing hours, and the fronds and leaflets die,
And the africanders hide their hearts and mock at the vaulted sky;
—Cling on the brow of the beetling krantz, scorning the plains below;
Seemingly lifeless, gaunt, and grey the africanders grow.