Here in this gold-green evening end,
While air is soft and sky is clear,
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On that bold hill, against a broad blue stream,
stood Arthur Phillip on a day of dream;
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The hut was built of bark and shrunken slabs,
That wore the marks of many rains, and showed
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You may have heard of Proclus, sir,
If you have been a reader;
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Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet
Of thunder and the wildering wings of rain
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From Andalusian gardens
I bring the rose and rue,
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Feet of the flying, and fierce
Tops of the sharp-headed spear,
40 lines, 3 comments
HATH he not followed a star through the darkness,
Ye people who sit at the table of Jephthah?
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The song that once I dreamed about,
The tender, touching thing,
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Underneath the windy mountain walls
Forth we rode, an eager band,
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A splendid sun betwixt the trees
Long spikes of flame did shoot,
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I walked through a Forest, beneath the hot noon,
On Etheline calling and calling!
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Lo! in storms, the triple-headed
Hill, whose dreaded
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Take this rose, and very gently place it on the tender, deep
Mosses where our little darling, Araluen, lies asleep.
40 lines, 3 comments
River, myrtle rimmed, and set
Deep amongst unfooted dells—
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ACROSS the dripping ridges,
O, look, luxurious night!
40 lines, 1 comment
AT DUSK, like flowers that shun the day,
Shy thoughts from dim recesses break,
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They built his mound of the rough, red ground,
By the dip of a desert dell,
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To-night a strong south wind in thunder sings
Across the city. Now by salt wet flats,
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FIVE years ago! you cannot choose
But know the face of change,
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Who cometh from fields of the south
With raiment of weeping and woe,
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Men have said that ye were sleeping—
Hurl, Australians, back the lie;
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SING, mountain-wind, thy strong, superior song—
Thy haughty alpine anthem, over tracts
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By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling;
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Amongst the thunder-splintered caves
On Ocean's long and windy shore,
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Wild-eyed woodlands, here I rest me, underneath the gaunt and ghastly trees;
Underneath fantastic-fronted caverns crammed with many a muffled breeze.
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DOWN in the South, by the waste without sail on it—
Far from the zone of the blossom and tree—
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The Leaders of millions, the lords of the lands,
Who sway the wide world with their will
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No song is this of leaf and bird,
And gracious waters flowing;
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KATE, they say, is seventeen—
Do not count her sweet, you know.
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