Karroo, The - Part 4
In the swift springtide of youth, I sang of the veld and its footpaths
Leading to lonely farmstead, leading to mission and kraal:
Sang of the bare brown veld and its beauty which comforts and gladdens
More than the sensuous tints of lands beloved of the Spring.
Wild were the fancies of youth, though tame and tuneless its numbers,
Faded from memory now like dreams that die with the dawn:
But I return to my theme, though blurred is the bloom of my rapture—
Fame, sweet siren, no longer lures me with promises light:
Heedless of her, once more I turn to the sea that enthralled me,
Wakened my earlier numbers, quickened my pulse with delight,
Turn to the motionless billows rolling away to the sunset,
Studded with stone-crested isles—wind-fretted, sunbitten, bare—
That sea which knows not the music, the rapture and rhyme of the surges,
Knows not the elvish chime of foambells on desolate shores.
Leading to lonely farmstead, leading to mission and kraal:
Sang of the bare brown veld and its beauty which comforts and gladdens
More than the sensuous tints of lands beloved of the Spring.
Wild were the fancies of youth, though tame and tuneless its numbers,
Faded from memory now like dreams that die with the dawn:
But I return to my theme, though blurred is the bloom of my rapture—
Fame, sweet siren, no longer lures me with promises light:
Heedless of her, once more I turn to the sea that enthralled me,
Wakened my earlier numbers, quickened my pulse with delight,
Turn to the motionless billows rolling away to the sunset,
Studded with stone-crested isles—wind-fretted, sunbitten, bare—
That sea which knows not the music, the rapture and rhyme of the surges,
Knows not the elvish chime of foambells on desolate shores.
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