#AustralianWriters
The wireless tells and the cable t… How our boys behaved by the Darda… Some thought in their hearts “Wil… We knew them of old and we knew th… Knew they would—
IN THE days that will be olden a… Ere the world emerged from darknes… On a mountain rising steeply from… Raised in scorn above the lowlands… Mammon Castle, built of marble th…
A lonely child, with toil o’ertaxe… Sits Cinderella by the fire; Her limbs in weariness relaxed, And in her eyes a sad desire. But soon a wreath is on her brow;
I met Jack Ellis in town to-day— Jack Ellis—my old mate, Jack— Ten years ago, from the Castlerea… We carried our swags together away To the Never-Again, Out Back.
OLD coach-road West by Nor’-ward… Old mile-tree by the track: A dead branch pointing forward, And a dead branch pointing back. And still in clear-cut romans
Who’s that mysterious rider, Full-sized, yet far away, Seen by the Western-sider— A spectre of the day? On ridge or seeming high line
Heed not the cock-sure tourist, Seeing with English eyes; Stroked at the banquet table Still, with the old stock lies— Pet of a social circle,
Behold! the biased foes of Right Are conscious of their danger, They’re startled by the dawning li… So very long a stranger. And fearing for their rotting laws…
There are three lank bards in a bo… Ah! The number is one too few— They have deemed their home and th… For the thing that they have to do… Three glasses they fill with the…
Now up and down the siding brown The great black crows are flyin’, And down below the spur, I know, Another `milker’s’ dyin’; The crops have withered from the g…
We knew too little of the world, And you and I were good— ’Twas paltry things that wrecked o… As well I knew they would. The people said our love was dead,
There are scenes in the distance w… On the desolate flats where gaunt… Where the brooding old ridge rises… From his dark lonely gullies of st… There are voice-haunted gaps, ever…
It is night-time when the saddest… When outside the printing office t… When the love-wrong is accomplishe… That the blackest lies are written… ’Tis the time of “late editions”.…
Fire lighted; on the table a meal… A lantern in the stable; a jingle… The mail-coach looming darkly by l… The growl of sleepy voices; a cand… A stumble in the passage of folk w…
‘this a wonderful time when these… These long ’small hours’ of night, When grass is crisp, and the air i… And the stars come close and brigh… The moon hangs caught in a silvery…