#AustralianWriters
IN my garden, O Beloved! Many pleasant trees are growing, Peach, and apricot, and apple, Myrtle, lilac, and laburnum. Fair are they, but midst them lone…
THE DAYS go by—the days go by, Sadly and wearily to die: Each with its burden of small care… Each with its sad gift of gray hai… For those who sit, like me, and si…
Unto the Person kind there came A young girl bearing her fruit of… She fell and it had to pay the pri… Innocent Lamb of Sacrifice! Lovingly then the Person smiled,
The pale discrowned stacks of maiz… Like spectres in the sun, Stand shivering nigh Avonaise, Where all is dead and gone. The sere leaves make a music vain,
By a black wharf I stood lately, When the night was at its noon; Keen, malicious stars were shining… And a wicked, white-faced moon. And I saw a stately vessel,
OVER a slow-dying fire, Dreaming old dreams, I am sitting… The flames leap up and expire; A woman sits opposite knitting. I’ve taken a Fate to wife;
With pen in hand and pipe in mouth… And claret iced to quench my drout… I sit upon my balcony That overlooks the sparkling sea, Serenly gay, and cool, and bland -
’TIS said that the Passion Flowe… With its figures of spear and swor… And hammer and nails, is a symbol Of the Woe of our Blessed Lord. So still in the Heart of Beauty
The awful seers of old who wrote,… Like drops of blood, great thought… Of ages burn, as eyes of lions lig… Deep jungle-dusks; who smote with… The soul of man on its most secret…
See how it flashes, This grape-blood fine! Our beards it splashes, O comrade mine! Life dust and ashes
Tjere are three mighty Voices th… Cry out to God to speed His Judg… The Voice of Devils, weary long a… Of dragging souls to Everlasting… The Voice of Saints who hear, whi…
These are the flowers of sleep That nod in the heavy noon, Ere the brown shades eastward cree… To a drowsy and dreamful tune— These are the flowers of sleep.
Not only on cross and gibbet, By sword, and fire, and flood, Have perished the world’s sad mart… Whose names are writ in blood. A woman lay in a hovel,
What shall a man remember In days when he is old, And Life is a dying ember, And Fame a story told? Power—that came to leave him?