George Essex Evans: Всі вірші поета

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The Land Of The Dawning

Darkrose her shore in seas of amethyst

By tropic breezes kissed,

A summer land in watery wastes forlorn,

Her ranges floating in the snow-white mist

And gold of early morn.

The tides of Empire ebbed and flowed afar;

The thrones of nations in the dust were hurled,

Silent she slept beneath the morning star,

by George Essex Evans

John Farrell

The pen falls from his nerveless hand,

The light is fading from his eyes,

The brain that nobly served his land

Darkens and dies.

No, never dies! From hour to hour

The burning thought is living still;

Onward it speeds with gath’ring power

To strengthen and fulfil.

by George Essex Evans

In A Garden

Girl, with the soft grey eyes,

You to the flowers belong:

From the perfume of a rose

My heart shall weave you a song.

I will colour its words with light,

Like the sun on that straying tress.

The wind will lend me its harp

To set it in loveliness.

by George Essex Evans

A Vision Of Christ

There fell on me a dream when days were gray,

And Hope had left me there to grope alone

Amid the silence of an unknown way

Vaulted with night and paved with barren stone,

Wherein such awful stillness held the air,

’Twere comfort but to breathe one’s own despair.

Till in my terror called I Him, who bore

The whole world’s sin upon His sinless soul,

by George Essex Evans

Morning Land

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;

But afar and above there is rest and love, there is hope for brain and hand,

The valleys fair and the crystal air and the peaks of Morning Land.

Around and beneath are the mists of toil and the sullen roar of the world,

And the sneer of scorn for a foothold gone and a climber backward hurled;

But afar and above are the hopes of men with the heart and will to stand

On the thin rift’s edge and the slippery ledge that lead to Morning Land.

by George Essex Evans

Kara

Chequered with sunshine and shade—the umbrage of white clouds in motion—

Rearing their summits to Heaven, broken like waves on their strands,

Northward and southward and seaward the mountains arise from the ocean—

Poised on a height above all, Kara, the beautiful, stands.

Kara, whose mountain the ranges lie under in turbulent surges—

Billows of purple and blue that stretch from her base to the sea—

Kara that knoweth the breath of the storm-wind, the sound of his dirges

Sweeping her gorges and clefts, or sighing to river and tree.

by George Essex Evans

In Collins Street

I stood in the heart of the city street,

I felt the throb of her pulses beat,

The thunder of life on the sunny air,

The waves of the people everywhere,

Like the stirring lilt of a mighty song

Ran the fever of life in the moving throng,

With the hope and joy and the want and woe

Of a million souls in its ebb and flow.

by George Essex Evans

The Dead Democrat

The roar and rush of life sweeps on;

Still shines the sun as once it shone:

Men reap and sow and live and toil

And plan for power and scheme for spoil.

What reeks the world in field or street?—

One heart has ceased to beat.

But She to whom in all the lands

The toilers stretch beseeching hands—

by George Essex Evans

The Crown Of Empire

Free is the wind that lashes into foam

The fortress waves that gird the Sea-King’s home

And free the war-worn Flag that is our fame

That fear, nor treason, nor the Storm-God’s might,

Nor the leagued banners of the World can shame

When Britain arms for Honour and the Right.

And free the hearts that on this golden day

Bear willing witness to the Sea-King’s sway:

by George Essex Evans

“But the Greatest of These is Charity”

White faces turn to us again

Sad eyes from out their veils of clay:

Strength stricken low, and hopeless pain,

Haunt us to-day.

Their wild eyes burn across our sleep:

They haunt us in the busy throng

With silent eloquence, more deep

Than word or song.

by George Essex Evans

Lux In Tenebris

When first the Gods, whose Empire is eternal,

In Time’s deep chalice poured Life’s sacred wine,

Flashed all the crystal cup with fire supernal;

Then said they: “Shall the mortal be divine?

Shall man usurp the ways the Gods have trod?

Who quaffs this cup, himself should be a God!”

So tempered they the measure of their giving,

And mingled germs of evil with the good;

George Essex Evans

The Secret Key

There is a magic kingdom of strange powers,

Thought-hidden, lit by other stars than ours;

And, when a wanderer through its mazes brings

Word of things seen, men say: “A poet sings.”

Its gates are guarded in a sterile land—

Mountain and deep morass, and shifting sand;

Storm-barred are they, and may not opened be

Save by the hand that finds the secret key.

by George Essex Evans