Archives: Poems

1 
The white moth to the closing bine,
  The bee to the opened clover,
And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood
  Ever the wide world over. 
2 
Ever the wide world over, lass,
  Ever the trail held true,
Over the world and under the world,
  And back at the last to you. 
3 
Out of the dark of the gorgio camp,
  Out of the grime and the grey
(Morning waits at the end of the world),
  Gipsy, come away! 
4 
The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp,
  The red crane to her reed,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
  By the tie of a roving breed. 
5 
The pied snake to the rifted rock,
  The buck to the stony plain,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
  And both to the road again. 
6 
Both to the road again, again!
  Out on a clean sea-track–
Follow the cross of the gipsy trail
  Over the world and back! 
7 
Follow the Romany patteran
  North where the blue bergs sail,
And the bows are grey with the frozen spray,
  And the masts are shod with mail. 
8 
Follow the Romany patteran
  Sheer to the Austral Light,
Where the besom of God is the wild South wind,
  Sweeping the sea-floors white. 
9 
Follow the Romany patteran
  West to the sinking sun,
Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift.
  And the east and west are one. 
10 
Follow the Romany patteran
  East where the silence broods
By a purple wave on an opal beach
  In the hush of the Mahim woods. 
11 
"The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
  The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
  As it was in the days of old." 
12 
The heart of a man to the heart of a maid– 
  Light of my tents, be fleet.
Morning waits at the end of the world,
  And the world is all at our feet!

Choose another poem

1 
The dead child lay in the shroud,
    And the widow watched beside;
And her mother slept, and the Channel swept
    The gale in the teeth of the tide. 
2 
But the mother laughed at all.
    “I have lost my man in the sea,
“And the child is dead. Be still,” she said,
    “What more can ye do to me?” 
3 
The widow watched the dead,
    And the candle guttered low,
And she tried to sing the Passing Song
    That bids the poor soul go. 
4 
And “Mary take you now,” she sang,
    “That lay against my heart.”
And “Mary smooth your crib to-night,”
     But she could not say “Depart.” 
5 
Then came a cry from the sea,
    But the sea-rime blinded the glass,
And “Heard ye nothing, mother?” she said,
     “’Tis the child that waits to pass.” 
6 
And the nodding mother sighed.
    “’Tis a lambing ewe in the whin,
“For why should the christened soul cry out
    “That never knew of sin?” 
7 
“O feet I have held in my hand,
     “O hands at my heart to catch,
“How should they know the road to go,
    “And how should they lift the latch?” 
8 
They laid a sheet to the door,
     With the little quilt atop,
That it might not hurt from the cold or the dirt,
     But the crying would not stop. 
9 
The widow lifted the latch
    And strained her eyes to see,
And opened the door on the bitter shore
    To let the soul go free. 
10 
There was neither glimmer nor ghost,
     There was neither spirit nor spark,
And “Heard ye nothing, mother?” she said,
     ”’Tis crying for me in the dark.” 
11 
And the nodding mother sighed:
    ”’Tis sorrow makes ye dull;
“Have ye yet to learn the cry of the tern,
    “Or the wail of the wind-blown gull?” 
12 
“The terns are blown inland,
    “The gray gull follows the plough.
“’Twas never a bird, the voice I heard,
    “O mother, I hear it now!” 
13 
“Lie still, dear lamb, lie still;
    “The child is passed from harm,
“’Tis the ache in your breast that broke your rest,
     “And the feel of an empty arm.” 
14 
She put her mother aside,
     “In Mary’s name let be!
“For the peace of my soul I must go,” she said,
     And she went to the calling sea. 
15 
In the heel of the wind-bit pier,
     Where the twisted weed was piled,
She came to the life she had missed by an hour,
     For she came to a little child. 
16 
She laid it into her breast,
    And back to her mother she came,
But it would not feed and it would not heed,
     Though she gave it her own child’s name. 
17 
And the dead child dripped on her breast,
     And her own in the shroud lay stark;
And “God forgive us, mother,” she said,
     “We let it die in the dark!”

Choose another poem

Explore the site from the Home page

I stand and guard—such ones as say 
    In matter lives no spirit, lie;
The household through me throbs and beats, 
The meaning of the crowded streets
    Is plain, and once a year I may 
Admit the beings of the sky.

Lost souls revisiting the earth
    To see old loves that they be well, 
And find their hold upon the heart, 
In life so strong, in death depart;
    Wherefore with peals of soundless mirth 
Goes each one to his place in hell.

The curtain on a winter's night 
    Struggles and beats as if it fought
In every fold a power of air;
The unseen fills each vacant chair; 
    The living lavish not a thought
On those that are not in their sight.

Life and dark death go hand in hand,­ 
    Believe or disbelieve my tale,—
How Death is Life, how Life is Death, 
How that the spirit wandereth,
    How bolts and bars may not prevail 
To guard us from the Other Land.

Choose another poem

I had some friends—but I dreamed that they were dead—
Who used to dance with lanterns round a little boy in bed;
Green and white lanterns that waved to and fro:
But I haven’t seen a Firefly since ever so long ago! 

I had some friends—their crowns were in the sky—
Who used to nod and whisper when a little boy went by,
As the nuts began to tumble and the breeze began to blow:
And I haven’t seen a Coco-palm since ever so long ago! 

I had a friend—he came up from Cape Horn,
With a Coal-sack on his shoulder when a little boy was born.
He heard me learn to talk, and he helped me thrive and grow:
But I haven’t seen the Southern Cross since ever so long ago! 

I had a boat—I out and let her drive,
Till I found my dream was foolish, for my friends were all alive.
The Coco-palms were real, and the Southern Cross was true:
And the Fireflies were dancing—so I danced too!

Choose another poem

"To our private taste, there is always 
something a little exotic, almost artificial, 
in songs which, under an English aspect 
and dress, are yet so manifestly the 
product of other skies. They affect us
like translations; the very fauna and 
flora are alien, remote; the dog's-tooth 
violet is but an ill substitute for the rathe primrose,
nor can we ever believe that the wood-robin 
sings as sweetly in April as the English thrush." 
—'THE ATHENAEUM'.



        Buy my English posies!
        Kent and Surrey may–
        Violets of the Undercliff
        Wet with Channel spray;
        Cowslips from a Devon combe–
        Midland furze afire–
        Buy my English posies
        And I'll sell your heart's desire!

        Buy my English posies!
        You that scorn the May,
        Won't you greet a friend from home
        Half the world away?
        Green against the draggled drift,
        Faint and frail but first–
        Buy my Northern blood-root
        And I'll know where you were nursed!

Robin down the logging-road whistles, "Come to me!
Spring has found the maple-grove, the sap is running free.
All the winds of Canada call the ploughing-rain.
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

        Buy my English posies!
        Here's to match your need–
        Buy a tuft of royal heath,
        Buy a bunch of weed
        White as sand of Muizenberg
        Spun before the gale–
        Buy my heath and lilies
        And I'll tell you whence you hail!

Under hot Constantia broad the vineyards lie—
Throned and thorned the aching berg props the speckless sky–
Slow below the Wynberg firs trails the tilted wain—
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

        Buy my English posies!
        You that will not turn–
        Buy my hot-wood clematis,
        Buy a frond o' fern
        Gathered where the Erskine leaps
        Down the road to Lorne—
        Buy my Christmas creeper
        And I'll say where you were born!

West away from Melbourne dust holidays begin—
They that mock at Paradise woo at Cora Lynn—
Through the great South Otway gums sings the great South Main—
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

        Buy my English posies!
        Here's your choice unsold!
        Buy a blood-red myrtle-bloom,
        Buy the kowhai's gold
        Flung for gift on Taupo's face,
        Sign that spring is come–
        Buy my clinging myrtle
        And I'll give you back your home!

Broom behind the windy town, pollen of the pine—
Bell-bird in the leafy deep where the ratas twine—
Fern above the saddle-bow, flax upon the plain—
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

        Buy my English posies!
        Ye that have your own
        Buy them for a brother's sake
        Overseas, alone!
        Weed ye trample underfoot
        Floods his heart abrim–
        Bird ye never heeded,
        Oh, she calls his dead to him!

Far and far our homes are set round the Seven Seas;
Woe for us if we forget we who hold by these!
Unto each his mother-beach, bloom and bird and land—
Masters of the Seven Seas, oh, love and understand!

Choose another poem

The rain it rains without a stay
  In the hills above us, in the hills;
And presently the floods break way
  Whose strength is in the hills.
The trees they suck from every cloud,
The valley brooks they roar aloud—
Bank-high for the lowlands, lowlands,
  Lowlands under the hills! 

The first wood down is sere and small,
  From the hills—the brishings off the hills;
And then come by the bats and all
  We cut last year in the hills;
And then the roots we tried to cleave
But found too tough and had to leave—
Polting down through the lowlands, lowlands,
  Lowlands under the hills! 

The eye shall look, the ear shall hark
  To the hills, the doings in the hills,
And rivers mating in the dark
   With tokens from the hills.
Now what is weak will surely go,
And what is strong must prove it so—
Stand fast in the lowlands, lowlands,
  Lowlands under the hills! 

The floods they shall not be afraid—
  Nor the hills above ’em, nor the hills—
Of any fence which man has made
  Betwixt him and the hills.
The waters shall not reckon twice
For any work of man’s device,
But bid it down to the lowlands, lowlands,
  Lowlands under the hills! 

The floods shall sweep corruption clean—
  By the hills, the blessing of the hills—
That more the meadows may be green
  New-mended from the hills.
The crops and cattle shall increase,
Nor little children shall not cease.
Go—plough the lowlands, lowlands,
  Lowlands under the hills!

Choose another poem

1 
Mine was the woman to me, darkling I found her;
Haling her dumb from the camp, took her and bound her.
Hot rose her tribe on our track ere I had proved her;
Hearing her laugh in the gloom, greatly I loved her. 
2 
Swift through the forest we ran; none stood to guard us,
Few were my people and far; then the flood barred us—
Him we call Son of the Sea, sullen and swollen.
Panting we waited the death, stealer and stolen. 
3 
Yet ere they came to my lance laid for the slaughter,
Lightly she leaped to a log lapped in the water;
Holding on high and apart skins that arrayed her,
Called she the God of the Wind that He should aid her. 
4 
Life had the tree at that word (Praise we the Giver!)
Otter-like left he the bank for the full river.
Far fell their axes behind, flashing and ringing,
Wonder was on me and fear—yet she was singing! 
5 
Low lay the land we had left. Now the blue bound us,
Even the Floor of the Gods level around us.
Whisper there was not, nor word, shadow nor showing,
Till the light stirred on the deep, glowing and growing. 
6 
Then did He leap to His place flaring from under,
He the Compeller, the Sun, bared to our wonder.
Nay, not a league from our eyes blinded with gazing,
Cleared He the gate of the world, huge and amazing! 
7 
This we beheld (and we live)—the Pit of the Burning!
Then the God spoke to the tree for our returning;
Back to the beach of our flight, fearless and slowly,
Back to our slayers went he: but we were holy. 
8 
Men that were hot in that hunt, women that followed,
Babes that were promised our bones, trembled and wallowed:
Over the necks of the Tribe crouching and fawning—
Prophet and priestess we came back from the dawning!

Choose another poem

Files 
The Files–
Office Files!
Oblige me by referring to the Files.
Every question man can raise,
Every phrase of every phrase
Of that question is on record in the Files– 
(Threshed out threadbare–fought and finished in the Files). 
Ere the Universe at large 
Was our new-tipped arrows' targe– 
Ere we rediscovered Mammon and his wiles– 
Faenza, gentle reader, spent her–five-and-twentieth leader– 
(You will find him, and some others, in the Files). 
Warn all coming Robert Brownings and Carlyles, 
It will interest them to hunt among the Files 
Where unvisited, a-cold,
Lie the crowded years of old 
In that Kensal-Green of greatness called the Files 
(In our newspaPère-la-Chaise the Office Files),
Where the dead men lay them down
Meekly sure of long renown,
And above them, sere and swift,
Packs the daily deepening drift
Of the all-recording, all-effacing Files–
The obliterating, automatic Files.
Count the mighty men who slung
Ink, Evangel, Sword, or Tongue
When Reform and you were young–
Made their boasts and spake according in the Files–
(Hear the ghosts that wake applauding in the Files!)
Trace each all-forgot career
From long primer through brevier
Unto Death, a para minion in the Files
(Para minion–solid–bottom of the Files). . . . 
Some successful Kings and Queens adorn the Files.
They were great, their views were leaded,
And their deaths were triple-headed,
So they catch the eye in running through the Files
(Show as blazes in the mazes of the Files);
For their "paramours and priests,"
And their gross, jack-booted feasts,
And their "epoch-marking actions" see the Files. 
Was it Bomba fled the blue Sicilian isles?
Was it Saffi, a professor
Once of Oxford, brought redress or
Garibaldi? Who remembers
Forty-odd-year-old Septembers?– 
Only sextons paid to dig among the Files
(Such as I am, born and bred among the Files).
You must hack through much deposit
Ere you know for sure who was it
Came to burial with such honour in the Files
(Only seven seasons back beneath the Files).
"Very great our loss and grievous–
"So our best and brightest leave us,
"And it ends the Age of Giants," say the Files;
All the '60–'70–'80'–'90 Files
(The open-minded, opportunist Files–
The easy "O King, live for ever " Files).
It is good to read a little in the Files;
'Tis a sure and sovereign balm
Unto philosophic calm,
Yea, and philosophic doubt when Life beguiles.
When you know Success is Greatness,
When you marvel at your lateness
In apprehending facts so plain to Smiles
(Self-helpful, wholly strenuous Samuel Smiles).
When your Imp of Blind Desire
Bids you set the Thames afire,
You'll remember men have done so - in the Files.
You'll have seen those flames transpire - in the Files
(More than once that flood has run so - in the Files).
When the Conchimarian horns
Of the reboantic Norns
Usher gentlemen and ladies
With new lights on Heaven and Hades,
Guaranteeing to Eternity
All yesterday's modernity;
When Brocken-spectres made by
Some one's breath on ink parade by,
Very earnest and tremendous,
Let not shows of shows offend us.
When of everything we like we
Shout ecstatic: "Quod ubique, 
"Quod ab omnibus means semper!"
Oh, my brother, keep your temper!
Light your pipe and take a look along the Files.
You've a better chance to guess
At the meaning of Success
(Which is Greatness–vide Press)
When you've seen it in perspective in the Files!

Choose another poem