All Poems
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XXIV
© Boker George Henry
The leaden eyelids of wan twilight closeUpon the sun; and now the misty dewTrails its wet skirts across the glades, and throughThe tangled grasses of the meadow goes,Shaking a drop in every open rose,In every lily's cup; Yon dreary yewAlone looks darker for the tears that strewIts dusky leaves, and deeper shadow throws,And closer gathers; as if it would sitAs one who, mourning, wraps his mantle tight,And huddles nearer to the dismal sightOf some lost love; so yonder tree seems knitFast to the grave beneath; my heart takes flight,To that lone yew, and cowers under it
XLVII
© Boker George Henry
Standing upon this grave, I view The world with my anointed eyes.They pass along, a motley crew, The people, with their works and cries.
XLII
© Boker George Henry
If she should give me all I ask of her,The virgin treasures of her modest love;If lip to lip in eager frenzy clove,And limb with limb should palpitate and stirIn that wild struggle whose delights conferA rapture which the jealous gods aboveEnvy and long for as they coldly moveThrough votive fumes of spice and burning myrrh;Yea, were her beauty thus securely mine,Forever waiting at my beck and call,I lord and master of her all in all;Yet at that weakness I would fret and pineWhich makes exhausted nature trip and fallJust at the point where it becomes divine
LXX
© Boker George Henry
My lady's senses are so pure and fine,She takes small pleasure in the close embraceThat love and nature in me coarsely traceAs the great end to which all hearts incline
CLXXXVIII
© Boker George Henry
My darling's features, painted by the light;As in the convex of a mirror, seeHer face diminished so fantasticallyIt scarcely hints her lovely self aright
Birefringence
© Bök Christian
See in silk-screened kimonosblowtorch scars on metal,wings of iridescentinsects,the aurora borealis.
Where the Dead Men Lie
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Out on the wastes of the Never Never-- That's where the dead men lie!There where the heat-waves dance for ever-- That's where the dead men lie!That's where the Earth's loved sons are keepingEndless tryst: not the west wind sweepingFeverish pinions can wake their sleeping-- Out where the dead men lie!
Where brown Summer and Death have mated-- That's where the dead men lie!Loving with fiery lust unsated-- That's where the dead men lie!Out where the grinning skulls bleach whitelyUnder the saltbush sparkling brightly;Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly-- That's where the dead men lie!
Deep in the yellow, flowing river-- That's where the dead men lie!Under the banks where the shadows quiver-- That's where the dead men lie!Where the platypus twists and doubles,Leaving a train of tiny bubbles;Rid at last of their earthly troubles-- That's where the dead men lie!
East and backward pale faces turning-- That's how the dead men lie!Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning-- That's how the dead men lie!Oft in the fragrant hush of nooningHearing again their mothers' crooning,Wrapt for aye in a dreamful swooning-- That's how the dead men lie!
Only the hand of Night can free them-- That's when the dead men fly!Only the frightened cattle see them-- See the dead men go by!Cloven hoofs beating out one measure,Bidding the stockman know no leisure--That's when the dead men take their pleasure! That's when the dead men fly!
Ask, too, the never-sleeping drover: He sees the dead pass by;Hearing them call to their friends--the plover, Hearing the dead men cry;Seeing their faces stealing, stealing,Hearing their laughter pealing, pealing,Watching their grey forms wheeling, wheeling Round where the cattle lie!
Strangled by thirst and fierce privation-- That's how the dead men die!Out on Moneygrub's farthest station-- That's how the dead men die!Hardfaced greybeards, youngsters callow;Some mounds cared for, some left fallow;Some deep down, yet others shallow; Some having but the sky
A Vision out West
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Far reaching down's a solid sea sunk everlastingly to rest,And yet whose billows seem to be for ever heaving toward the westThe tiny fieldmice make their nests, the summer insects buzz and humAmong the hollows and the crests of this wide ocean stricken dumb,Whose rollers move for ever on, though sullenly, with fettered wills,To break in voiceless wrath upon the crumbled bases of far hills,Where rugged outposts meet the shock, stand fast, and hurl them back again,An avalanche of earth and rock, in tumbled fragments on the plain;But, never heeding the rebuff, to right and left they kiss the feetOf hanging cliff and bouldered bluff till on the farther side they meet,And once again resume their march to where the afternoon sun dipsToward the west, and Heaven's arch salutes the Earth with ruddy lips
A Song from a Sandhill
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Drip, drip, drip! It tinkles on the fly--The pitiless outpouring of an overburdened sky:Each drooping frond of pine has got a jewel at its tip--First a twinkle, then a sprinkle, and a drip, drip, drip
On the Boundary
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
I love the ancient boundary-fence-- That mouldering chock-and-log:When I go ride the boundary I let the old horse jog,And take his pleasure in and out Where sandalwood grows dense,And tender pines clasp hands across The log that tops the fence
Kelly's Conversion
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Kelly the Rager half opened an eyeTo wink at the Army passing by,While his hot breath, thick with the taint of beer,Came forth from his lips in a drunken jeer
How Polly Paid for her Keep
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Do I know Polly Brown? Do I know her? Why, damme!You might as well ask if I know my own name!It's a wonder you never heard tell of old Sammy,Her father, my mate in the Crackenback claim.
From the Far West
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
'Tis a song of the Never Never land--Set to the tune of a scorching gale On the sandhills red, When the grasses deadLoudly rustle, and bow the headTo the breath of its dusty hail:
Fogarty's Gin
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
A sweat-dripping horse and a half-naked myall,And a message: "Come out to the back of the run--Be out at the stake-yards by rising of sun!Ride hard and fail not! there's the devil to pay:For the men from Monkyra have mustered the run--Cows and calves, calves of ours, without ever a brand,Fifty head, if there's one, on the camp there they stand
Down the River
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Hark the sound of it; drawing nearer! Clink of hobble and brazen bellMark the passage of stalwart shearer, Bidding Monaro soil farewell
