The Diggers (A B Banjo Paterson Poems)
Bristling Billy the porcupine,A person that nobody liked,Sinking a shaft on an ant-bed mine,Came on a burrowing lizard's line,And the ...
Bristling Billy the porcupine,A person that nobody liked,Sinking a shaft on an ant-bed mine,Came on a burrowing lizard's line,And the ...
THE good ship lies in the crowded dock, Fair as a statue, firm as a rock: Her tall masts piercing ...
Never a swallow wets his wingIn Lavender Pond from Spring to Spring;Never a lily, pure and chill,Holds her cup for ...
'Twas early eve, the gentle rain Sprinkled the fields from heaven's domain;And distant winds, provoked, began to play,When clouds, confused, ...
My Aunt Evangeline has come To visit Melbourne town,Garbed for its Glad Centenary In frill and festal gown.And Aunties says ...
It is a shabby backdrop of bright stars:one of the small interstices of time:the worn out north star northward, and ...
A thousand doors agowhen I was a lonely kidin a big house with fourgarages and it was summeras long as ...
Down at the end of the iron lane I see the sunset's glare, And the red bars ...
They bear, in place of classic names, Letters and numbers on their skin. They play their grisly blindfold games In ...
Away by the lands of the Japanee Where the paper lanterns glow And the crews of all the shipping drink ...
Seven men from all the world, back to Docks again, Rolling down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain: Give ...
A forward rush by the lamp in the gloom, And we clasped, and almost kissed; But she was not the ...
"What knight or what vassal will be so bold As to plunge in the gulf below? See! I hurl in ...
A thousand doors ago when I was a lonely kid in a big house with four garages and it was ...
SMOKE of the fields in spring is one, Smoke of the leaves in autumn another. Smoke of a steel-mill roof ...
Blue, but you are Rose, too, and buttermilk, but with blood dots showing through. A little salty your white nape ...
THIN sheets of blue smoke among white slabs . near the shingle mill . winter morning. Falling of a dry ...
On the breakwater in the summer dark, a man and a girl are sitting, She across his knee and they ...
I WAS born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of ...
to Robert Hass and in memory of Elliot Gilbert Slow dulcimer, gavotte and bow, in autumn, Bashõ and his friends ...
The horizons ring me like faggots, Tilted and disparate, and always unstable. Touched by a match, they might warm me, ...
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