Biography of Dora Wilcox
Mary Theodora Joyce Wilcox poet and playwright, was born on 24 November 1873 at Christchurch, New Zealand, daughter of William Henry Wilcox, saddler, and his wife Mary Elizabeth, née Washbourne.
Educated privately and at Canterbury College, she contributed to the Bulletin and taught for several years at Armidale, New South Wales, before travelling to England where she published Verses from Maoriland (1905) and Rata and Mistletoe (1911). Dora Wilcox married Jean Paul Hamelius, professor of English at Liège University, Belgium, in London on 14 October 1909 and served with the Voluntary Aid Detachment in London in 1915-18.
After her marriage to Moore she devoted much time to helping him to research The Story of Australian Art. She published Seven Poems (1924) and in 1927 won the Sydney Morning Herald's prize for an ode commemorating the opening of the Commonwealth parliament. In 1931 she won a prize for a one-act play, The Raid, while another, The Fourposter, was included in Best Australian One-Act Plays. A contributor to Australian, English and European periodicals, Dora Wilcox also published Samuel Butler in Canterbury, New Zealand (1934), a lecture given to the Sydney branch of the English Association of which she was a patron.
She died, childless, in Sydney on 14 December 1953.
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Dora Wilcox Poems
When I look out on London's teeming streets, On grim grey houses, and on leaden skies, My courage fails me, and my heart grows sick, And I remember that fair heritage
TO break the stillness of the hour There is no sound, no voice, no stir; Only the croak of frogs,—the whirr Of crickets hidden in leaf and flower.
The Call Of The Bush
Three roads there are that climb and wind Amongst the hills, and leave behind The patterned orchards, sloping down To meet a little country town.
AH, my heart, the storm and sadness! Wind that moans, uncomforted, Requiem for Love that’s dead’ Love that’s dead!
The Wattle Tree
Winter is not yet gone - but now The birds are carolling from the bough. And the mist has rolled away Leaving more beautiful the day.
TO break the stillness of the hour
There is no sound, no voice, no stir;
Only the croak of frogs,—the whirr
Of crickets hidden in leaf and flower.
The clear-cut outlines of a spire
Spring from a mass of eucalypt
Sharply against the sky,—still tipped
With one last gleam of lingering fire.