Within my heart I hear the cry Of loves that suffer, souls that die, And you may have no praise from me For warfare's vast vulgarity; Only the flag of love, unfurled For peace above a weeping world,...
While to the clarion blown by Marlowe's breath Tall Tragedy tramped by in hues of death, And Shakespeare yet was tuning string by string, With English hawthorn crowned, in that glad spring...
I have sought and followed you, drunk with your sacred wine; Led out by a laughing wind on a tumbling sea, On crags amid clouds, in cups that allure the bee, And deep in the gem-lit gloom of the tortuous mine,...
The Blatant Beast saw meadows, made for peace, Sunlit and gently asway, and held them light, Till each green blade grew rigid in the night And ruddied with a glorious morn's increase....
Eternal cold of silence, where each sound Dies in its birth, and Death's pale henchmen meet With soft Lethean traps unwary feet Or ride with hell's white steed and slavering hound;...
He, born of my girlhood, is dead, while my life is yet young in my heart Ere the breasts where his baby lips fed have forgotten their softness, we part....
Grant me a moment of peace, Let me but open mine eyes, Forgetting the empire of lies And warfare's majestic increase Of national folly and hate; Ere I return to my fate, Grant me a moment of peace....
When fires have burnt your forest bare and black, And you are parched and dizzy, and search in vain For pools in dust unvisited of rain, And shamble, lost, along a shimmering track,...
Hail to you, comrades, who have won, Where the torn lines of battle run By tattered town and ruined mead, The honour that men give with pride To those who, daffing death aside,...
Not till the sun, that brings to birth The myriad marvels of the earth And bids us look with wandering eyes On all that here about us lies, Has gone behind the hill, Do you, O peaceful evening star,...
From every quarter we, Who bent the trembling knee And cowered or grovelled prostrate day and night, Now come once more to sing A dirge before thee, King, Once more with earnest heart to do thee right....
One of the twain was long and dusty grey, And like a spark that in the ashes lies, Satiric laughter glinted in his eyes And made his nose auroral with its ray: The other like a huge black bird of prey,...
Love may trace his echoing footsteps, yet we never more shall meet Rugged Kretschmann, the musician, plodding down a Sydney street, Never see the low broad figure, massive head and shaggy mane...
'Our loss was light,' the paper said, 'Compared with damage to the Hun': She was a widow, and she read One name upon the list of dead Her son, her only son.