George Essex Evans: Всі вірші поета

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The Lion's Whelps

There is scarlet on his forehead,

There are scars across his face,

’Tis the bloody dew of battle dripping down, dripping down,

But the war-heart of the Lion

Turns to iron in its place

When he halts to face disaster, when he turns to meet disgrace,

Stung and keen and mettled with the life-blood of his own.

Let the hunters ’ware who flout him,

George Essex Evans

Toowoomba

Dark purple, chased with sudden gloom and glory,

Like waves in wild unrest,

Low-wooded billows and steep summits hoary,

Ridge, slope, and mountain crest,

Cease at her feet with faces turned to meet her,

Enthroned, apart, serene

Above her vassal hills whose voices greet her

The Mountain Queen.

George Essex Evans

The Nation Builders

A handful of workers seeking the star of a strong intent —

A handful of heroes scattered to conquer a continent —

Thirst, and fever, and famine, drought, and ruin, and flood,

And the bones that bleach on the sandhill, and the spears that redden with blood;

And the pitiless might of the molten skies, at noon, on the sun-cracked plain,

And the walls of the northern jungles, shall front them ever in vain,

Till the land that lies like a giant asleep shall wake to the victory won,

And the hearts of the Nation Builders shall know that the work is done.

George Essex Evans

Welcome

Prince of the race whose Empire is the Sea,

We welcome thee!

Thy ensign floats above our harbour-mouth.

A fairy’s hand

Has decked the great Queen City of the South.

By arch and roof, in bannered street and stand,

The vast crowd waits.

The cannon thunder greeting from the strand.

George Essex Evans

To A Bigot

Here am I sent a wanderer like to thee,

And here a moment ere the night I stand.

The twin eternities—Has Been, Shall Be—

Gird me on either hand.

My joy or grief—the flicker of a wing

Of some brief insect in the blinding glow!

One moment down the wind my voice shall ring.

This, and no more, I know.

George Essex Evans

The Song Of Life

Sing not of Rest

For heart, or brain, or the strong soul’s emotion

Beneath the shadow of Eternal peace!

There is no rest in Nature or surcease

Of Law, and Labour, in unceasing motion.

Sing not of Rest!

Sing not of Peace

On earth, or in the realms beyond our dreaming!

George Essex Evans

The Song Of Gracia

SPRING

Across the street, across the grass,

Across my life I watch her pass.

No pure star on a dusky height

Hath eyes more bright,

No lily on her emerald bed

A statelier head,

No dewdrop on the beaded thorn

George Essex Evans

The Sword Of Pain

The Lights burn dim and make weird shadow-play,

The white walls of the ward are changed to grey,

Down the long aisle of beds, with tender grace,

Sleep smoothes the lines on many a weary face;

Yet there are those for whom no midnight brings

Solace and strength to face the day again,

And, over all, with wide majestic wings,

There broods the awful mystery of Pain.

George Essex Evans

Riches

Friend, you have wealth and power,

Men go and come at your call,

Yours are the whims of the hour—

What have you done with it all?

I am only a poet

Fighting a bitter fight,

Fate will not even grant me

Leisure in which to write.

George Essex Evans

The Spirit Of Poetry

All things are Hers. Concealed or manifest,

Found or unfound, Her Spirit lives in each—

Dumb till the Master-Soul its secret guessed

And gave its silence speech.

All things are Hers. She is the Crystal Queen

Of all men’s vision, and the moving breath

Which through the greyness of the sordid scene

Gloweth and quickeneth.

George Essex Evans

The Splendour And The Curse Of Song

Methought the unknown God we seek in vain

Grew weary of the evil He had wrought—

The piteous litanies of human pain—

Till here and there some lonely souls He sought

To bear the message of Immortal Thought,

And sent them forth to wander ’midst the throng

Crowned with the splendour and the curse of Song.

But that which still was kindred to the stars

George Essex Evans

Out Of The Silence

Here in the silence cometh unto me

A song that is not mine,

With wash of waves along the cold shore line,

And sob of wind, and rain upon the sea.

It is the song and message of the dead!

Around my soul to-night

I feel the kinship of the Infinite,

I hear the sound of voices that are fled.

George Essex Evans