Love poems
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Irish to English
© Christopher John Brennan
I am not of your blood;I never loved your ways:If e'er your deed was goodI yet was slow to praise.
I am shut out of mine own heart
© Christopher John Brennan
I am shut out of mine own heartbecause my love is far from me,nor in the wonders have I partthat fill its hidden empery:
1908
© Christopher John Brennan
The droning tram swings westward: shrillthe wire sings overhead, and chillmidwinter draughts rattle the glassthat shows the dusking way I passto yon four-turreted square towerthat still exalts the golden hourwhere youth, initiate once, endearsa treasure richer with the years
The Photographer
© Bramer Shannon
What it means to carry a camerais to speak out of the emptyframe seeing God, Sky, Road, her returnand faith in the perfection of deserts
I Love Corned Beef
© Bowen A. P.
I LOVE corned beef -- I never knewHow good the stuff COULD taste in stew!I love it WET, I love it DRY,I love it baked and called MEAT PIE
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
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
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
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
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.
The Demon Snow-shoes
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
The snow lies deep on hill and dale,In rocky gulch and grassy vale:The tiny, trickling, tumbling fallsAre frozen 'twixt their rocky wallsThat grey and brown look silent downUpon Kiandra's shrouded town
To One on her Birthday
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
How shall I choose to wish you happinessOn this day or another? Your life's wayHas passed already far beyond our guess,Who only watch and wait for you and pray
