Mostly Slavonic (Henry Lawson Poems)
I.-Peter MichaelovIt was Peter the Barbarian put an apron in his bagAnd rolled up the honoured bundle that Australians call ...
I.-Peter MichaelovIt was Peter the Barbarian put an apron in his bagAnd rolled up the honoured bundle that Australians call ...
IOld Hezekiah leaned hard on his hoeAnd squinted long at Eben, his lank son.The silence shrilled with crickets. Day was ...
My youthful brother, oft I long To write to you in prose or song; With no pretence to judgment strong, But warm affection, May ...
IMachine stitched rivets ravel on a treeWhose name he does not know. Left in the sky,He dangles from a silken ...
This will be a night in deep snowwhich has the power to muffle stepsin deep shadow transformingbodies to two puddles ...
Seven dog-days we let pass Naming Queens in Glenmacnass, All the rare and royal names Wormy sheepskin yet retains, Etain, Helen, Maeve, and Fand, Golden ...
Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled ...
1A phantom scene barely glimmers,The soft choirs of shades,Melpomene has lashed the windows of her room with satin.Wagons stand in ...
1A phantom scene barely glimmers,The soft choirs of shades,Melpomene has lashed the windows of her room with satin.Wagons stand in the ...
Spring trickles into the meadows.Only at dawn, small puffs of cold.About the barns of heavenwander the little cloud-calves.From sheepskin coat ...
By none but me can the tale be told,The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.(Lands are swayed by a King on ...
Three long days o'er the barren steppe Where the earth lay dead in her winding-sheet She measured the hours from ...
I'm a broken-hearted miner, who loves his cup to drain,Which often-times has caused me to lie in frost and rain.Roaming ...
Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid ...
I think I will always remember that picture, for the rest of my life Her smiling face, under the white ...
I The rutted roads are all like iron; skies Are keen and brilliant; only the oak-leaves cling In the bare ...
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