Tuatara: Volume 11, Issue 3, September 1963
Row on row the gleaming bottles stand
Replete with corpses won
From upland vale and forest nave,
From dim drowned depths of coastal clefts
And far off alpine tarns.
What vegetative agony lies here immured?
What fragrant grace cut off in infancy?
What will these poor shards reveal
Of life's impenetrable mystery?
Do skeletons reach up
To clothe the naked hills?
— B. C. Walsh