The LongWhite Grass
'This poem was dedicated to my sister Daisy and myself who both loved the long white grass, and to my brother Fell who inspired me to write it by saying to a banker friend, "The grass up in the Riverina is white in the summer, Robbie." Rather queer -- but I kinda like it.' Nona Alexander (1953).
The Long White Grass
Mile upon mile, like a honeyed fall of snow,
Or the pale gold tresses of fair Rapunzel's hair
waves the Riverina long white grass Everywhere
Far as the eye can see, and near
The long white grass--
The flower of the grass
The flowering of the year.
Caressing the blackened tree stumps
pointing bleakly to the sky
Standing as ebon statues, in mute testimony
Of days that were smoke-hung with horror
Of nights that were riddened with fear
Yet returned again, and yet again
The long white grass--
The flower of the grass
The flowering of the year.
Ah the silvered gold of each slender stem
in the glint of the low Autumn sun
Shimmering through old wire fences,
with the gentle stubbles entwine,
reaching with fringed fingers to touch
the sheep-trimmed pine.
Ah, sweet its song of Harvest Home--
to those who list to hear
The long white grass--
The flower of the grass
The flowering of the year.
And Mt Galore stands proudly by,
Surveying all which we hold dear
And hid to his knees in the soft white grass--
The long white grass
The flower of the grass
The flowering of the year.
The Long White Grass
Mile upon mile, like a honeyed fall of snow,
Or the pale gold tresses of fair Rapunzel's hair
waves the Riverina long white grass Everywhere
Far as the eye can see, and near
The long white grass--
The flower of the grass
The flowering of the year.
Caressing the blackened tree stumps
pointing bleakly to the sky
Standing as ebon statues, in mute testimony
Of days that were smoke-hung with horror
Of nights that were riddened with fear
Yet returned again, and yet again
The long white grass--
The flower of the grass
The flowering of the year.
Ah the silvered gold of each slender stem
in the glint of the low Autumn sun
Shimmering through old wire fences,
with the gentle stubbles entwine,
reaching with fringed fingers to touch
the sheep-trimmed pine.
Ah, sweet its song of Harvest Home--
to those who list to hear
The long white grass--
The flower of the grass
The flowering of the year.
And Mt Galore stands proudly by,
Surveying all which we hold dear
And hid to his knees in the soft white grass--
The long white grass
The flower of the grass
The flowering of the year.