Men move about the workshop clumsily
Some limping on a crutch, some with their hands
Seeking lost brushes, or the hidden, key
Of a bright pattern for their raffia strands;
But he who loved with eager youth's delight
Swift action, and the leaping sea wind's call,
The dimpled rush of dawn, the star of night;
Sits in a corner moving scarce at all.
With chiselling tools, his lean, brown fingers guide
Each fine intricacy of curve and line;
The curious pause, half wondering, at his side,
Watching the growing splendour of design;
While he would give it all again to be
One with the wind, the sun, the morning sea.
Australasian, Melbourne, 5 June 1920, p6.