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with no hope of aught but silence for your vow：
it is something to have tried to do your duty：
it is something to be trying； trying now！
And； in the silent solemn hours；
when your soul floats down the far faint flood of time
to think of Earth's lovers who are ours；
of her saviours saving； suffering； sublime：
And that you with THESE may be her lover；
with THESE may save and suffer for her sake
IT IS JOY TO HAVE LIVED； SO TO DISCOVER
YOU'VE A LIFE YOU CAN GIVE AND SHE CAN TAKE！
Gordon's Grave
All the heat and the glow and the hush
of the summer afternoon；
the scent of the sweet…briar bush
over bowing grass…blades and broom；
the birds that flit and pass；
singing the song he knows；
the grass…hopper in the grass；
the voice of the she…oak boughs。
Ah； and the shattered column
crowned with the poet's wreath。
Who； who keeps silent and solemn
his passing place beneath？
~This was a poet that loved God's breath；
his life was a passionate quest；
he looked down deep in the wells of death；
and now he is taking his rest。~
To A。 L。 Gordon
In night…long days； in aeons
where all Time's nights are one；
where life and death sing paeans
as of Greeks and Galileans；
never begun or done；
where fate； the slow swooping condor；
comes glooming all the sky
as you have pondered I ponder；
as you have wandered I wander；
as you have died； shall I die？
Love and Death
Death？ is it death you give？ So be it！ O Death；
thou hast been long my friend； and now thy pale
cool cheek shall have my kiss； while the faint breath
expires on thy still lips； O lovely Death！
Come then； loose hands； fair Life； without a wail！
We've had good hours together； and you were sweet
what time love whispered with the nightingale；
tho' ever your music by the lark's would fail。
Come then； loose hands！ Our lover time is done。
Now is the marriage with the eternal sun。
The hours are few that rest； are few and fleet。
Good…bye！ The game is lost： the game is won。
Thomas William Heney。
Absence
Ah； happy air that； rough or soft；
May kiss that face and stay；
And happy beams that from above
May choose to her their way；
And happy flowers that now and then
Touch lips more sweet than they！
But it were not so blest to be
Or light or air or rose；
Those dainty fingers tear and toss
The bloom that in them glows；
And come or go； both wind and ray
She heeds not； if she knows。
But if I come thy choice should be
Either to love or not
For if I might I would not kiss
And then be all forgot；
And it were best thy love to lose
If love self…scorn begot。
A Riverina Road
Now while so many turn with love and longing
To wan lands lying in the grey North Sea；
To thee we turn； hearts； mem'ries； all belonging；
Dear land of ours； to thee。
West； ever west； with the strong sunshine marching
Beyond the mountains； far from this soft coast；
Until we almost see the great plains arching；
In endless mirage lost。
A land of camps where seldom is sojourning；
Where men like the dim fathers of our race；
Halt for a time； and next day； unreturning；
Fare ever on apace。
Last night how many a leaping blaze affrighted
The wailing birds of passage in their file；
And dawn sees ashes dead and embers whited
Where men had dwelt awhile。
The sun may burn； the mirage shift and vanish
And fade and glare by turns along the sky；
The haze of heat may all the distance banish
To the uncaring eye。
By speech； or tongue of bird or brute； unbroken
Silence may brood upon the lifeless plain；
Nor any sign； far off or near； betoken
Man in this vast domain。
Though tender grace the landscape lacks； too spacious；
Impassive； silent； lonely； to be fair；
Their kindness swiftly comes more soft and gracious；
Who live or tarry there。
All that he has； in camp or homestead； proffers
To stranger guest at once a stranger host；
Proudest to see accepted what he offers；
Given without a boast。
Pass； if you can； the drover's cattle stringing
Along the miles of the wide travelled road；
Without a challenge through the hot dust ringing；
Kind though abrupt the mode。
A cloud of dust where polish'd wheels are flashing
Passes along； and in it rolls the mail。
Comes from the box as on the coach goes dashing
The lonely driver's hail。
Or in the track a station youngster mounted
Sits in his saddle smoking for a 〃spell〃；
Rides a while onward； then； his news recounted；
Parts with a brief farewell。
To…day these plains may seem a face defiant；
Turn'd to a mortal foe； yet scorning fear；
As when； with heaven at war； an Earth…born giant
Saw the Olympian near。
Come yet again！ No child's fair face is sweeter
With young delight than this cool blooming land；
Silent no more； for songs than wings are fleeter；
No blaze； but sunshine bland。
Thus in her likeness that strange nature moulding
Makes man as moody； sad and savage too；
Yet in his heart； like her； a passion holding；
Unselfish； kind and true。
Therefore； while many turn with love and longing
To wan lands lying on the grey North Sea；
To…day possessed by other mem'ries thronging
We turn； wild West； to thee！
23rd December； 1891。
Patrick Edward Quinn。
A Girl's Grave
〃Aged 17； OF A BROKEN HEART； January 1st； 1841。〃
What story is here of broken love；
What idyllic sad romance；
What arrow fretted the silken dove
That met with such grim mischance？
I picture you； sleeper of long ago；
When you trifled and danced and smiled；
All golden laughter and beauty's glow
In a girl life sweet and wild。
Hair with the red gold's luring tinge；
Fine as the finest silk；
Violet eyes with a golden fringe
And cheeks of roses and milk。
Something of this you must have been；
Something gentle and sweet；
To have broken your heart at seventeen
And died in such sad defeat。
Hardly one of your kinsfolk live；
It was all so long ago；
The tale of the cruel love to give
That laid you here so low。
Loving； trusting； and foully paid
The story is easily guessed；
A blotted sun and skies that fade
And this grass…grown grave the rest。
Whatever the cynic may sourly say；
With a dash of truth； I ween；
Of the girls of the period； in your day
They had hearts at seventeen。
Dead of a fashion out of date；
Such folly has passed away
Like the hoop and patch and modish gait
That went out with an older day。
The stone is battered and all awry；
The words can be scarcely read；
The rank reeds clustering thick and high
Over your buried head。
I pluck one straight as a Paynim's lance
To keep your memory green；