He sits. Upon the kingly head dot… The round-balled wimple, and the h… Touch on the shoulders where the s… The downward garment shows the amb… The Face—that Face one scarce can…
(Sydney) ‘Armageddon’ O CITY lapped in sun and Sabbat… With happy face of plenteous ease… Have you no doubts that whisper, d…
“Yes, let Art go, if it must be That with it men must starve - If Music, Painting, Poetry Spring from the wasted hearth!” Yes, let Art go, till once again
In that rich Archipelago of sea With fiery hills, thick woods wher… Browses along the trees, and god-l… Leave monuments of speech too larg… There are strange forest-trees. F…
Men and boys, O fathers, brothers… Burst these fetters round you boun… Women, sisters, wives and mothers, Lift your faces from the ground! O Democracy, O People,
One thing we praise you for that i… The dauntless eyes that faced the… The hand that never wearied in the… Till, through the dark’s despair,… It rose, that vision of forgotten…
(Song of the American Sons of La… The Song O WE knew so well, dear Father, When we answered to your call, And the Southern Moloch stricken
. . . They caught him at the bend.… Sat in the car, revolvers in their… From either side the stone-walled… There flashed thin fire-streaks in… The father swayed and fell, shot t…
‘HE holds a pistol to my head, Swearing he will shoot me dead, If he have not my purse instead, The robber!’ ‘He, with the lash of wealth and p…
AT anchor in that harbour of the… The Chinese Gate, We lay where, terraced under green… The Sea-town sate. Ships, steamers, sailers, many a f…
GIRLS, we love you, and love Asks you to give again That which draws it above, Beautiful, without stain. Give us weariless faith
(With his first book of 'Songs’) ‘MY Sweet, my Child, through all… Of dark and wind and rain, Where thunder crashes, and the lig… Sears the bewildered brain,
BRUTE beast, at last you have it… Truth’s not a phrase, justice an i… Your life ran red with murder, gre… Blood has washed blood clean, and… Your carrion will be purified. Ye…
’TIS not when I am here, In these homeless homes, Where sin and shame and disease And foul death comes; ’Tis not when heart and brain
‘Chant of the Firemen’ ‘THIS is the steamer’s pit. The ovens like dragons of fire Glare thro’ their close-lidded eye… With restless hungry desire.