I TOIL, I toil, as toils a jade… Around the ever-changing changeles… From sunrise on to sunset, till th… That grinds in flour my heart and… And the ropes are loosed, and I m…
‘Susannah and Mary-Jane’ TWO little Darlings alone, Clinging hand in hand; Two little Girls come out To see the wonderful land!
(The friend my verse won for me) With a Copy of My 'Poetical Work… ‘TAKE with all my heart, friend,… The labour of my past, Though the heart here hidden is
UP from the oven pit, The hell where poor men toil, At the sunset hour he comes Clean-clothed, washed from soil. On the fo’c’s’le head he kneels,
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…
(For the Irish Delegates in Aust… DO you want to hear a story, With a nobler praise than ‘glory,’ Of a man who loved the right like… hell?
THE stars shone faint through the… The church-bells were ringing; Three girls, arms laced, were pass… Tramping and singing. Their heads were bare: their short…
THRO’ the mists of years, Thro’ the lies of men, Your bloody sweat and tears, Your desperate hopes and fears Reach us 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…
GIRLS, we love you, and love Asks you to give again That which draws it above, Beautiful, without stain. Give us weariless faith
It is something in this darker dre… to have wrestled with its pleas… it is something to have sinned, an… it is something to have failed,… It is something to have loved the…
IN the black night, along the mud… Amid the threatening boughs and gh… Hark! sounds that gird the darknes… Murmurs and rumours and reverberan… Trampling, breaths, movements, and…
Death? is it death you give? So b… thou hast been long my friend,… cool cheek shall have my kiss, whi… expires on thy still lips, O lovel… Come then, loose hands, fair Life…
“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
ALOLL in the warm clear water, On her back with languorous limbs, She lies. The baby upon her breas… Paddles and falls and swims. With half-closed eyes she smiles,