The Roaring Days (Henry Lawson Poem)
The night too quickly passes And we are growing old, So let us fill our glasses And toast the Days ...
The night too quickly passes And we are growing old, So let us fill our glasses And toast the Days ...
The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair, There's men from the barn and the forge ...
Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks arise Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour Of silk-sack ...
Pitch the Tent on the lawn set up the chairs, the signs, the pulpit flagmen at the roadside, cars parked ...
They sit, week on week, year on year, solitary matriarchs Hair of silver, grey, white, spun gold Stoic women, widows, ...
He's there, Little John to the other's Robin Buds enjoying the vibe The stalwart second to Marian's call and Robin's ...
The day was wet, the rain fell souse Like jars of strawberry jam, a sound was heard in the ...
What is she writing? Watch her now, How fast her fingers move ! How eagerly her youthful brow Is bent ...
AS I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'flow'r scents the dery air, Where the howlet mourns in her ...
AS I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ...
For failure I was well equipped And should have come to grief, By atavism grimly gripped, A fool beyond belief. ...
It's slim and trim and bound in blue; Its leaves are crisp and edged with gold; Its words are simple, ...
The Elders of the Tribe were grouped And squatted in the Council Cave; They seemed to be extremely pooped, And ...
I DO not fear to own me kin To the glad clods in which spring flowers begin; Or to my ...
By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep, ...
By the far Samoan shore, Where the league-long rollers pour All the wash of the Pacific on the coral-guarded bay, ...
This is the story of G.R.D., Who went on a mission across the sea To borrow some money for you ...
There came a whisper down the Bland between the dawn and dark, Above the tossing of the pines, above the ...
As I lie at rest on a patch of clover In the Western Park when the day is done. I ...
I may not weep, not weep, and he is dead. A weary, weary weight of tears unshed Through the long ...
What time I paced, at pleasant morn, A deep and dewy wood, I heard a mellow hunting-horn Make dim report ...
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