He's gone. I do not understand.
Let's go see Old Abe
Sitting in the marble and the moonlight,
Before Geraint, the enemy's scourge,
I saw white horses, tensed, red,
Urien of Yrechwydd most generous of Christian men,
much do you give to the people of your land;
Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the Gates of Hercules;
When painters leave this world, we grieve
For the hand that will work no more,
I vow to thee, my country-all earthly things
above-
Brother, today I sit on the brick bench of the house,
where you make a bottomless emptiness.
1
Your face was lifted to the golden sky
Ah. Iago, my friend, whom the ignorant people thought
The last of your kind, since all the wealth you brought
Hay un lugar que yo me sé
en este mundo, nada menos,
The snow-white Olympic swan, with beak of rose-red agate,
She didn't know she was beautiful, though her smiles were dawn,
Oh, Paddy dear, and did you hear
The news that's going round,
John Gilbert was a bushranger
Of terrible renown
Harried we were, and spent,
broken and falling,
No more I hail the morning's golden gleam, No more the wonders of the view I sing;
Brothers and men that shall after us be,
Let not your hearts be hard to us:
When faint and sad o'er sorrow's desert wild Slow journeys onward poor misfortune's child;
Black Man o' Mine, If the world were your lover,
When the old Cutty Sark goes to sea again,
Crowding on her flying kites once more,
When such a Father doth in Israel die,
Who can forbear to sound an Elegy?
Cicely Fox Smith
1st February 1882
Give me a harsh land to wring music from,
brown hills, and dust, with dead grass
Hang it all, Slessor, as Pound once said to Browning,
Why have you sailed so untimely out on the water
We're bound for blue water where the great winds blow,
It's time to get the tacks aboard, time for us to go;
O YOUNG through all thy immemorial years!
Rise, Mother, rise, regenerate from thy gloom,
Your lips were so laughing Langston man
WHAT should be said of him cannot be said;
By too great splendor is his name attended;
|