My stretcher is one scarlet stain, And as I tries to scrape it clean, I tell you wot - I'm sick with pain For all I've 'eard, for all I've seen; Around me is the 'ellish night,...
I'm a broken-hearted miner, who loves his cup to drain, Which often times has caused me to lie in frost and rain. Roaming about the country, looking for some work to do,...
There's the whitebox and pine on the ridges afar, Where the iron-bark, blue-gum, and peppermint are; There is many another, but dearest to me, And the king of them all was the stringy-bark tree. ...
"He was always the one to figure things," remarked Humboldt. "Always the smart ass type, big jawed lazy bones - couldn't make a good farmer out of that sort. Didn't want to do much of anything 'cept run. All his money went on h...
Quieter than any twilight Shed over earth's last deserts, Quiet and vast and shadowless Is that unfounded keep, Higher than the roof of the night's high chamber Deep as the shaft of sleep. ...
There's a warrior hunting o'er prairie and hill, Who in sunshine or starlight is eager to kill, Who ne'er sleeps by his fire on the wild river's shore, Where the green cedars shake to the white rapids' roar....
Upon the wreckage of thy yesterday Design the structure of to-morrow. Lay Strong corner stones of purpose, and prepare Great blocks of wisdom, cut from past despair....
A minx of seventeen, with rather fine Brown eyes and freckles and a cheerful grin, She saunters up the ward, and stricken sin Nods and looks pleasant (why should one repine?)....
So soon he fell, the world will never know What possibilities within him lay, What hopes irradiated his young life, With high ambition and with ardor rife; But ah! the speedy summons came, and so...
One summer morning, when the sun was hot, Weary with labor in his garden-plot, On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves, Ser Federigo sat among the leaves Of a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread,...
I trust that somewhere and somehow You all have heard of Hagenau, A quiet, quaint, and ancient town Among the green Alsatian hills, A place of valleys, streams, and mills,...
Yet in the darksome crypt I left so late, Whose only altar is its rusted grate, - Sepulchral, rayless, joyless as it seems, Shamed by the glare of May's refulgent beams, -...
Miles and miles of quiet houses, every house a harbour, Each for some unquiet soul a haven and a home, Pleasant fires for winter nights, for sun the trellised arbour,...
Oh, who in creation would fail to descend That wonderful hole in the ground? - That, feeling its way like a hypocrite-friend In sinuous fashion, seems never to end; While thunder and lightning abound. ...
When Fate presents us with the Bays, We prize the Praiser, not the Praise. We scarcely think our Fame eternal If vouched for by the Farthing Journal; But when the Craftsman's self has spoken,...