MARYROSE02 Posted August 17, 2011 Share Posted August 17, 2011 Bellbirds By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling:It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedgesTouch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowersStruggles the light that is love to the flowers;And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing. The silver-voiced bell birds, the darlings of daytime! They sing in September their songs of the May-time; When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;And straightway the hues of their feathers unfoldenAre the green and the purple, the blue and the golden. October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses;Loiters, knee-deep, in the grasses, to listen,Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten: Then is the time when the water-moons splendidBreak with their gold, and are scattered or blendedOver the creeks, till the woodlands have warningOf songs of the bell-bird and wings of the Morning. Welcome as waters unkissed by the summersAre the voices of bell-birds to the thirsty far-comers.When fiery December sets foot in the forest,And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,Pent in the ridges for ever and everThe bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,With ring and with ripple, like runnels who torrentsAre toned by the pebbles and the leaves in the currents. Often I sit, looking back to a childhood,Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion,Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of Passion; -Songs interwoven of lights and of laughtersBorrowed from bell-birds in far forest-rafters;So I might keep in the city and alleysThe beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys:Charming to slumber the pain of my lossesWith glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
newjez Posted August 17, 2011 Share Posted August 17, 2011 One of my favourites is Earth Visitors by Kenneth Slessor - he wrote some lovely poems. Fell off the back of a ferry whilst drunk and drowned in Sydney harbour from memory. Earth-Visitors (To N.L.) THERE were strange riders once, came gusting down Cloaked in dark furs, with faces grave and sweet, And white as air. None knew them, they were strangers— Princes gone feasting, barons with gipsy eyes And names that rang like viols—perchance, who knows, Kings of old Tartary, forgotten, swept from Asia, Blown on raven chargers across the world, For ever smiling sadly in their beards And stamping abruptly into courtyards at midnight. Post-boys would run, lanterns hang frostily, horses fume, The strangers wake the Inn. Men, staring outside Past watery glass, thick panes, could watch them eat, Dyed with gold vapours in the candleflame, Clapping their gloves, and stuck with crusted stones, Their garments foreign, their talk a strange tongue, But sweet as pineapple—it was Archdukes, they must be. In daylight, nothing; only their prints remained Bitten in snow. They'd gone, no one knew where, Or when, or by what road—no one could guess— None but some sleepy girls, half tangled in dreams, Mixing up miracle and desire; laughing, at first, Then staring with bright eyes at their beds, opening their lips, Plucking a crushed gold feather in their fingers, And laughing again, eyes closed. But one remembered, Between strange kisses and cambric, in the dark, That unearthly beard had lifted. . . . 'Your name, child?' 'Sophia, sir—and what to call your Grace?' Like a bubble of gilt, he had laughed 'Mercury!' It is long now since great daemons walked on earth, Staining with wild radiance a country bed, And leaving only a confusion of sharp dreams To vex a farm-girl—that, and perhaps a feather, Some thread of the Cloth of Gold, a scale of metal, Caught in her hair. The unpastured Gods have gone, They are above those fiery-coasted clouds Floating like fins of stone in the burnt air, And earth is only a troubled thought to them That sometimes drifts like wind across the bodies Of the sky's women. There is one yet comes knocking in the night, The drums of sweet conspiracy on the pane, When darkness has arched his hands over the bush And Springwood steams with dew, and the stars look down On that one lonely chamber. . . . She is there suddenly, lit by no torch or moon, But by the shining of her naked body. Her breasts are berries broken in snow; her hair Blows in a gold rain over and over them. She flings her kisses like warm guineas of love, And when she walks, the stars walk with her above. She knocks. The door swings open, shuts again. 'Your name, child?' A thousand birds cry 'Venus!' Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
newjez Posted August 17, 2011 Share Posted August 17, 2011 But this is my favourite Ballad of the Drover Across the stony ridges, Across the rolling plain, Young Harry Dale, the drover, Comes riding home again. And well his stock-horse bears him, And light of heart is he, And stoutly his old packhorse Is trotting by his knee. Up Queensland way with cattle He's travelled regions vast, And many months have vanished Since home-folks saw him last. He hums a song of someone He hopes to marry soon; And hobble-chains and camp-ware Keep jingling to the tune. Beyond the hazy dado Against the lower skies And yon blue line of ranges The station homestead lies. And thitherward the drover Jogs through the lazy noon, While hobble-chains and camp-ware Are jingling to a tune. An hour has filled the heavens With storm-clouds inky black; At times the lightning trickles Around the drover's track; But Harry pushes onward, His horses' strength he tries, In hope to reach the river Before the flood shall rise. The thunder, pealing o'er him, Goes rumbling down the plain; And sweet on thirsty pastures Beats fast the plashing rain; Then every creek and gully Sends forth its tribute flood The river runs a banker, All stained with yellow mud. Now Harry speaks to Rover, The best dog on the plains, And to his hardy horses, And strokes their shaggy manes: "We've breasted bigger rivers When Hoods were at their height, Nor shall this gutter stop us From getting home tonight!" The thunder growls a warning, The blue, forked lightning's gleam; The drover turns his horses To swim the fatal stream. But, oh! the flood runs stronger Than e'er it ran before; The saddle-horse is failing, And only half-way o'er! When flashes next the lightning The flood's grey breast is blank; A cattle-dog and packhorse Are struggling up the bank. But in the lonely homestead The girl shall wait in vain He'll never pass the stations In charge of stock again. The faithful dog a moment Lies panting on the bank, Then plunges through the current To where his master sank. And round and round in circles He fights with failing strength, Till, gripped by wilder waters, He fails and sinks at length. Across the flooded lowlands And slopes of sodden loam The packhorse struggles bravely To take dumb tidings home; And mud-stained, wet, and weary, He goes by rock and tree, With clanging chains and tinware All sounding eerily. Henry Lawson Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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