Works

An outcry in the bush below,
A crash, and boughs that sway,
And shouts of laughter let me know
Where my two ruffians play.

Barelegged, bareheaded, brown and free,
They lurk and prowl and spring;...

How many years, how many years have fled,
Since in the cool dim parlour sat the three
Lawson and I and, lounging easily,
The beaming indolent poet! Then instead
Of labouring weary at the mill, we led...

Here lies the woven garb he wore
Of grass he gathered by the shore
Whereon the phantom waves still fret and foam
And sigh along the visionary sand.
'Where is he now?' you cry. 'What desolate land...