Ebbs and flows the restless river
In the city street
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It was the middle of the drought; the ground was hot and bare,
You might search for grass with a microscope, but nary grass was there;
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IN the greyness of the dawning we have seen the pilot-star,
In the whisper of the morning we have heard the years afar.
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No white cloud sails the lonely sky,
Thro’ the gaunt trees no breezes sigh,
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Like weary sea-birds spent with flight
And faltering,
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Nature feels the touch of noon;
Not a rustle stirs the grass;
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There fell on me a dream when days were gray,
And Hope had left me there to grope alone
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Weary was I of Earth. My body lay,
Its fires turned down and slaked to faintest heat.
104 lines, 1 comment
An amphitheatre of purple hills
And emerald slopes where nestling villas gleam,
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O for a vision of the perfect light
To shame the splendour of the morning star!
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Not as the songs of other lands
Her song shall be,
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The willows sweep the water, and the rushes lean a-down,
And I see the river shining far away,
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Now that the gods are dead—where shall we find us a god?
Myths of the Greek Olympus have sunk in the surge of Time;
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Earth's mightiest isle. She stands alone.
The wide seas wash around Her throne,
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The gentle heart that hated wrong,
The courage that all ills withstood,
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Bright skies of summer o’er the deep,
And soft salt air along the land,
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Dim in the mist of ages, seeking a resting-place,
Broke on the shores of Britain the wave of an Aryan race.
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IT WAS on the fourth of August, as five hundred of us lay
In the camp at Eland’s River, came a shell from De La Rey—
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THE BOY went out from the ranges grim,
And the breath of the mountains went with him;
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I have seen the plains lying baked and bare,
When drought and famine hold revel there,
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Girl, with the soft grey eyes,
You to the flowers belong:
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I stood in the heart of the city street,
I felt the throb of her pulses beat,
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The pen falls from his nerveless hand,
The light is fading from his eyes,
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Chequered with sunshine and shade—the umbrage of white clouds in motion—
Rearing their summits to Heaven, broken like waves on their strands,
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This is the story of one man’s soul.
The paths are stony and passion is blind,
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When first the Gods, whose Empire is eternal,
In Time’s deep chalice poured Life’s sacred wine,
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Around and beneath, the dull grey mist and the sullen roar of the sea,
Scant footing-place on the sheer cliffs face—with death for a penalty;
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In an age of Mammon and Greed,
In an age of Humbug and Cant,
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Half-lost in film of faintest lawn,
A single star in armour white
77 lines, 4 comments
Here in the silence cometh unto me
A song that is not mine,
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