For now to sorrow must I tune my song. And set my harp to notes of saddest woe.
My soul is an enchanted boat. Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing.
Congenial spirits part to meet again. But she was journeying to the land of souls.
My age is as a lusty winter, Frosty, but kindly.
The Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Saturday 7 February 1931,
The spirit- world around this world of sense Floats like an - atmosphere, and every- where Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense A vital breath of more ethereal air.