I love Henry Lawson's choice of words in this verse.

"the stream that, crooning to itself,..."

The lyrical quality of this line was like a tender hug, like a lullaby...

I also noticed as I read through the poem that the meter reminded me of those never-forgotten meters of those first and beloved poems I learned at my dad's knee, like "School Days"...

I think I'm going to feel very much at home with this man.

Alliemae

Ah, then our hearts were bolder,
And if Dame Fortune frowned
Our swags we'd lightly shoulder
And tramp to other ground.
But golden days are vanished,
And altered is the scene;
The diggings are deserted,
The camping-grounds are green;
The flaunting flag of progress
Is in the West unfurled,
The might bush with iron rails
Is tethered to the world.

[In the Days When the World Was] ~Henry Lawson

This poem reminded me of days past when 49ers here in America panned for gold and Dame Fortune for most also alluded them. My grandmother on my father's side was a 49er. He left us family in San Francisco to seek a fortune for them in the Sierras, but he never returned and my great-grandmother raised her ten children alone.

I can see that...and feel it too.

Thank you anna...your poem is lovely!

Alliemae

'There, that is for Harry,' he said, 'and it's queer,
'Tis the very same glass that he drank from last year;
His name's on the glass, you can read it like print,
He scratched it himself with an old piece of flint;
I remember his drink - it was always Three Star' -
And the landlord looked out through the door of the bar.<p< He looked at the horses, and counted but three:
'You were always together - where's Harry?' cried he.
Oh, sadly they looked at the glass as they said,
'You may put it away, for our old mate is dead;'
But one, gazing out o'er the ridges afar,
Said, 'We owe him a shout - leave the glass on the bar.'

They thought of the far-away grave on the plain.
They thought of the comrade who came not again,
They lifted their glasses, and sadly they said:
'We drink to the name of the mate who is dead.'
And the sunlight streamed in, and a light like a star
Seemed to glow in the depth of the glass on the bar.

And still in that shanty a tumbler is seen,
It stands by the clock, ever polished and clean;
And often the strangers will read as they pass
The name of a bushman engraved on the glass;
And though on the shelf but a dozen there are,
That glass never stands with the rest on the bar.

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

What a fitting tribute to their mate. My dad was in Australia during WWII, but he doesn't talk about it much. He brought home a boomrang and I used to like to hold it when I was a child. It felt kinda weird-smooth like.

"In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

THE SONG AND THE SIGH" 

The creek went down with a broken song,  
'Neath the sheoaks high;  
The waters carried the song along,  
And the oaks a sigh.  

The song and the sigh went winding by,  
Went winding down;  
Circling the foot of the mountain high,  
And the hillside brown.  

They were hushed in the swamp of the Dead Man's Crime,  
Where the curlews cried;  
But they reached the river the self-same time,  
And there they died.  

And the creek of life goes winding on,  
Wandering by;  
And bears forever, its course upon  
A song and a sigh.
 

Babi

But the curse o'class distinctions from our shoulders shall be
hurled,
An' the influence of woman revolutionize the world;
There'll be higher education for the toilin' starvin' clown
An rich an' educated shall be educated down;
An' we all will meet amidships on this stout old earthly craft
An' there won't be any friction 'twixt the classes fore-'n'-aft.
We'll be brothers, fore-'n'-aft!
Yes, an' sisters, fore-'n'-aft! When the people work together, and there ain't no fore-'n'-aft.

Class Wars - throughout history there have always been class wars. The players may have changed throughout the centuries but they still continue even today. Will there ever be a time when ALL the people will work together and there won' be any "fore-'n'-aft"?.

One a lonely selection far out in the West
An old woman works all the day without rest
And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome.
'Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.'

She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs,
She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows,
And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack,
'Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come back.'

It is five weary years since her old husband died;
And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed
'Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can,
An' it's strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.'

Whenever the scowling old sundowners come.
And cunningly ask if the master's at home.
'Be off,' she replies, 'with your blarney and cant.
Or I'll can my son Andy; he's workin' beyant.'

'Git out,' she replies, though she trembles with fear,
For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near.
But she says to herself, when she's like to despond,
That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond.

Ah, none of her children need follow the plough,
And some have grown rich in the city ere now;
Yet she says: 'They might come when the shearing is done,
And I'll keep the ould place if it's only one.'

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

I can relate to this old woman living alone. I hated to give up my home in California. But after my husband and son died and my daughter was living back East, it really got to much for me to keep. But still I would of liked to keep the 'ould place if - only - for one.'

Now up and down the siding brown
The great black crows are flyin'.
And down below the spur, I know,
Another 'milker's dyin';
The crops have withered from the ground,
The tank's clay bed is glarin'.
But from my heart no tear nor sound,
For I have gone past carin'-
Past worryin' or carin'.
Past feelin' aught or carin',
But from my heart no tear nor sound,
For I have gone past carin'.

Through Death and Trouble, turn about,
Through hopeless desolation,
Through flood and fever, fire and drought,
And slavery and starvation;
Through childbirth, sickness, hurt, and blight,
And slavery and starvation;
Through childbirth, sickness, hurt, and blight,
And nervousness an' scarin',
Through bein' left alone at night,
I've got to be past carin',
Past feelin' and past carin';
Through city cheats and neighbour's spite,
I've come to be past carin'.

Our first child took, in days like these,
A cruel week in dyin'.
All day upon her father's knees,
Or on my poor breast lyin';
The tears we shed - the prayers we said
Were awful, wild - despairin'!
I've pulled three through, and buried two
Since then - and I'm past carin'.
I've grown to be past carin',
Past worryin' and wearin';
Since then, and I'm past carin'.

'Twas ten years first, then came the worst,
All for a dusty clearin',
I thought I thought my heart would burst
When first my man went shearin';
He's drovin' in the great North-west,
I don't know how he's farin';
For I, the one that loved him best,
I've grown to be past carin'
Past lookin' for or carin';
The girl that waited long ago,
Has lived to be past carin'.

My eyes are dry, I cannot cry,
I've got no heart for breakin',
But where it was in days gone by,
A dull and empty achin',
My last boy ran away from me,
I know my temper's wearin',
But now I only wish to be
Beyond all signs of carin'.
Past wearyin' or carin',
Past feelin' and despairin';
And now I only wish to be
Beyond all signs of carin'.

~ "In the Days when the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

I see this as a very sad poem. Once again Henry Lawson has given us a glimpse of what the women in his time period went through. I can certainly relate to losing a child and waiting for a husband to come back. And yet I can't help wonder what is "beyond all signs of carin'" except death.

An Old Irish Blessing  
May the road rise up to meet you. 
May the wind always be at your back. 
May the sun shine warm upon your face, 
and rains fall soft upon your fields. 
And until we meet again, 
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

A Blessing for a Friend  
Wishing you a rainbow 
For sunlight after showers— 
Miles and miles of Irish smiles 
For golden happy hours— 
Shamrocks at your doorway 
For luck and laughter too, 
And a host of friends that never ends 
Each day your whole life through.
 

Babi

The Two Friends

AXIOCHUS, a handsome youth of old,
And Alcibiades, (both gay and bold,)
So well agreed, they kept a beauteous belle,
With whom by turns they equally would dwell.

IT happened, one of them so nicely played,
The fav'rite lass produced a little maid,
Which both extolled, and each his own believed,
Though doubtless one or t'other was deceived.

BUT when to riper years the bantling grew,
And sought her mother's foot-steps to pursue,
Each friend desired to be her chosen swain,
And neither would a parent's name retain.

SAID one, why brother, she's your very shade;
The features are the same-:-your looks pervade.
Oh no, the other cried, it cannot be
Her chin, mouth, nose, and eyes, with your's agree;
But that as 'twill, let me her favours win,
And for the pleasure I will risk the sin.

FADED PICTURES

by: William Vaughn Moody (1869-1910)

ONLY two patient eyes to stare
Out of the canvas. All the rest--
The warm green gown, the small hands pressed
Light in the lap, the braided hair

That must have made the sweet low brow
So earnest, centuries ago,
When some one saw it change and glow--
All faded! Just the eyes burn now.

I dare say people pass and pass
Before the blistered little frame,
And dingy work without a name
Stuck in behind its square of glass.

But I, well, I left Raphael
Just to come drink these eyes of hers,
To think away the stains and blurs
And make all new again and well.

Only, for tears my head will bow,
Because there on my heart's last wall,
Scarce one tint left to tell it all,
A picture keeps its eyes, somehow.

A hand upon the horse's mane,
And one foot in the stirrup set.
And stooping back to kiss again.
With 'Good-bye, Mary! don't you fret
When I come back' - he laughed for her-
'We do not know how soon 'twill be:
I'll whistle as I round the spur-
You let the sliprails down for me.'

She gasped for sudden loss of hope,
As, with a backward wave to her,
He cantered down the grassy slope
And swiftly round the dark'ning spur.
Black-pencilled panels standing high,
And darkness fading into stars,
And blurring fast against the sky,
A faint white form beside the bars.

And often at the set of sun,
In winter bleak and summer brown,
She'd steal across the little run,
And shyly let the sliprails down.
And listen there when darkness shut
The nearer spur in slience deep;
And when they called her from the hut
Steal home and cry herself to sleep.

[Some editions have four more lines here.]
And he rides hard to dull the pain
Who rides from one that loves him best;
And he rides slowly back again,
Whose restless heart must rove for rest.

~"In the Days When the World was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

Lawson has a way of grabbing my emotion and twisting it until I want to cry stop. He knew how to to take a relationship between men and women and create a story-poem out of it. This one really touched me deeply.

Mea culpa.

I milked her father's cows a month,
I brought the wood and water,
I mended all the broken fence,
Before I won the daughter.

I listened to her father's yarns,
I did just what I 'oughter',
And what you'll have to do to win
A free-selector's daughter

I broke my pipe and burnt my twist,
And washed my mouth with water;
I had a shave before I kissed
The free-selector's daughter.

Then, rising in the frosty morn,
I brought the cows for Mary,
And when I'd milked a bucketful
I took it to the diary.

I poured the milk into the dish
While Mary held the strainer,
I summoned heart to speak my wish,
And, oh! her blush grew plainer.

I told her I must leave the place,
I said that I would miss her;
At first she turned away her face,
And then she let me kiss her.

I put the bucket on the ground,
And in my arms I caught her:
I'd give the world to hold again
That free-selector's daughter!

~"In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

While I understand the ways of the man towards the free seclector's daughter, I'd like to know what a "free-selector" is? Does anyone here know what that might refer to?

You may think for awhile, and with reason,
Though still with a kindly regret,
That I've left it full late in the season
To prove I remember you yet;
But you'll never judge me by their treason
Who profit by friends - and forget.

I remember, Old Man, I remember -
The tracks that we followed are clear -
The jovial last nights of December,
The solemn first days of the year,
Long tramps through the clearings and timber,
Short partings on platform and pier.

I can still feel th spirit that bore us,
And often the old stars will shine-
I remember the last spree in chorus
For the sake of that other Lang Syne,
When the tracks lay divided before us,
You path through the future and mine.

Through the frost-wind that cut like whip-lashes,
Through the ever-blind haze of the drought -
And in fancy at times by the flashes
Of light in the darkness of doubt-
I have followed the tent poles and ashes
Of camps that we moved further out.

You will find in these pages a trace of
That side of our past which was bright,
And recognise sometimes the face of
A friend who has dropped out of sight -
I send them along in the place of
The letters I promised to write.

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

This too is a very sad poem, but it reminds us all of sometimes as life goes on we somehow lose sight of those we once knew and have now dropped out of sight.

A cloud of dust on the long white road,  
And the teams go creeping on  
Inch by inch with the weary load;  
And by the power of the greenhide goad  
The distant goal is won 

With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust,  
And necks to the yokes bent low,  
The beasts are pulling as bullocks must;  
And the shining tires might almost rust  
While the spokes are turning slow.  

With face half-hid 'neath a broad-brimmed hat  
That shades from the heat's white waves,  
And shouldered whip with its greenhide plait,  
The driver plods with a gait like that  
Of his weary, patient slaves.  

He wipes his brow, for the day is hot,  
And spits to the left with spite;  
He shouts at "Bally", and flicks at "Scot",  
And raises dust from the back of "Spot",  
And spits to the dusty right.  

He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form  
In front of a settler's door,  
And ask for a drink, and remark, "It's warm,"  
Or say, "There's signs of a thunderstorm;"  
But he seldom utters more.  

But the rains are heavy on roads like these;  
And, fronting his lonely home,  
For weeks together the settler sees  
The teams bogged down to the axletrees,  
Or ploughing the sodden loam.  

And then when the roads are at their worst,  
The bushman's children hear  
The cruel blows of the whips reversed  
While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst,  
And bellow with pain and fear.  

And thus with little joy or rest  
Are the long, long journeys done;  
And thus - 'tis a cruel war at best –  
Is distance fought in the mighty West,  
And the lonely battles won

Our yard is fixed with double bails,
Round one the grass is green,
The bush is growing through the rails,
The spike is rusted in;
And 'twas from there his freckled face
Would turn and smile at me-
He'd milk a dozen in the race
While I was milking three.

I milk eleven cows myself
Where once I milked but four;
I set the dishes on the shelf
And close the dairy door
And when the glaring sunlight fails
And the fire shines through the cracks,
I climb the broken stockyard rails
And watch the bridle-tracks.

He kissed me twice and once again
And rode across the hill,
The pint-pots and the hobble-chain
I hear them jingling still;
He'll come at night or not at all-
He left in dust and heat,
And when the soft, cool shadows fall
Is the bes time to meet.

And he is coming back again,
He wrote to let me know,
The floods were in the Darling then-
It seems so long ago;
He'd come through miles of slush and mud,
And it was weary work,
He'd come through miles of slush and mud,
And it was weary work,
The creeks were bankers, and the flood
Was forty miles round Bourke.

He said teh floods had formed a block,
The plains could not be crossed,
And there was foot-rot in the flock
And hundreds had been lost;
The sheep were falling thick and fast
A hundred miles from town,
And when he reached the line at last
He trucked the remnant down.

And so he'll have to stand the cost;
his luck was always bad;
Instead of making more, he lost
The money that he had;
And how he'll manage, heaven knows
(My eyes are getting dim),
He says - he sys - he don't - suppose
I'll want - to marry - him

As if I wouldn't take his hand
Without a golden glove -
Oh! Jack, you men won't understand
How much a girl can love.
I long to see his face once more -
Jack's dog! thank God, it's Jack! -
(I never thought I'd faint before)
He's coming - up - the track.

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

That last stanza reminds me of the day my husband came back from Vietnam. He came home a day early and instead of looking my best, I was a mess. I had been cleaning the kitchen floor on my hands and knees when I heard my doorbell ring. It was as if somebody was leaning on the bell and in frustration I got up and went to the door and guess who was standing there in his fatigues. And I'd never thought I'd faint before - I didn't than either but I was hard pressed to get my breathe when he kissed me.

With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust,
And necks to the yokes bent low,
The beasts are pulling as bullocks must;
And the shining tires might almost rust
While the spokes are turning slow.

With face half-hid 'neath a broad-brimemd hat
That shades from the heart's white waves.
And shouldered whip with its green-hide plait,
The driver plods with a gait like that
Or of his weary, patient slaves.

He wipes his brow, for the day is hot,
And spits to the left with spite;
He shouts at 'Bally,' and flicks at 'Scot',
And raises dust from the back of 'Spot',
And spits to the dusty right.

He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form
In front of a settler's door,
And ask for a drink, and remark 'It's warm,
Or say 'There's signs of a thunder-storm';
But he seldom utters more.

But the rains are heavy on the road like these;
And, fronting his lonely home,
For weeks together the settler sees
The teams bogged down to the axletrees,
Or ploughing the sodden loam.

And then when the roads are at their worst,
The bushman's children hear
The cruel blows of the whips reversed
While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst,
And bellow with pain and fear.

And thus with little of joy or rest
Are the long, long journey's done;
And this - 'tis a cruel war at the best -
Is distance fought in the mighty West,
And the lonely battles won.

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

You have to say that Lawson is truly a good storyteller. Can't you see the teams as they struggle to work together - man and beast a like.

You ask me to be gay and glad
While lurid clouds of danger loom,
And vain and bad and gambling mad,
Australia races to her doom.
You bid me sing the light and fair,
The dance, the glance on pleasure's wings –
While you have wives who will not bear,
And beer to drown the fear of things.

A war with reason you would wage
To be amused for your short span,
Until your children's heritage
Is claimed for China by Japan.
The football match, the cricket score,
The "scraps", the tote, the mad'ning Cup –
You drunken fools that evermore
"To-morrow morning" sober up!

I see again with haggard eyes,
The thirsty land, the wasted flood;
Unpeopled plains beyond the skies,
And precious streams that run to mud;
The ruined health, the wasted wealth,
In our mad cities by the seas,
The black race suicide by stealth,
The starved and murdered industries!

You bid me make a farce of day,
And make a mockery of death;
While not five thousand miles away
The yellow millions pant for breath!
But heed me now, nor ask me this –
Lest you too late should wake to find
That hopeless patriotism is
The strongest passion in mankind!

You'd think the seer sees, perhaps,
While staring on from days like these,
Politeness in the conquering Japs,
Or mercy in the banned Chinese!
I mind the days when parents stood,
And spake no word, while children ran
From Christian lanes and deemed it good
To stone a helpless Chinaman.

I see the stricken city fall,
The fathers murdered at their doors,
The sack, the massacre of all
Save healthy slaves and paramours –
The wounded hero at the stake,
The pure girl to the leper's kiss –
God, give us faith, for Christ's own sake
To kill our womankind ere this.

I see the Bushman from Out Back,
From mountain range and rolling downs,
And carts race on each rough bush track
With food and rifles from the towns;
I see my Bushmen fight and die
Amongst the torn blood-spattered trees,
And hear all night the wounded cry
For men! More men and batteries!

I see the brown and yellow rule
The southern lands and southern waves,
White children in the heathen school,
And black and white together slaves;
I see the colour-line so drawn
(I see it plain and speak I must),
That our brown masters of the dawn
Might, aye, have fair girls for their lusts!

With land and life and race at stake –
No matter which race wronged, or how –
Let all and one Australia make
A superhuman effort now.
Clear out the blasting parasites,
The paid-for-one-thing manifold,
And curb the goggled "social-lights"
That "scorch" to nowhere with our gold.

Store guns and ammunition first,
Build forts and warlike factories,
Sink bores and tanks where drought is worst,
Give over time to industries.
The outpost of the white man's race,
Where next his flag shall be unfurled,
Make clean the place! Make strong the place!
Call white men in from all the world!

Henry Lawson

I found this poem while looking through the titles for a more 'light-hearted' poem by Henry Lawson...and hopefully a shorter one.

When I realized it was neither I decided to at least read it but not necessarily post it.

I'm confused by this poem and the poet's intention in writing it: is it sarcasm, tongue-in-cheek, resignation at something he sees happening in his country that disgusts him...or just historic telling.

I don't know where its birthplace in the history of Australia may have been--I think it might help to know that.

If any of you can give your opinions or shed some facts on this poem I'd really appreciate it.

The one thing I am sure of is that it has left me feeling deeply sad...in a very 'down-beaten' kind of sadness.

Thanks to all, Alliemae

I see again with haggard eyes,
The thirsty land, the wasted flood;

that seems to be his explanation for the bit about

While you have wives who will not bear,
And beer to drown the fear of things.

In other words the women are refusing because he believes they fear both another birth and the guy's lack of willingness to help her and the difficulties of bringing up a child not only in the back country but with an alcoholic because he says the wives will not use beer to drown their fears which is what he is saying the husband is doing. Of course no acknowledgment is made here about how on top of the isolation we are hearing about that is usual for women in this time living in the back country but there is the additional isolation of a man who is there in body but that is all since the drinking person not only emotionally shuts themselves off from themselves as well as everyone else but is isolating those around them while they are busy drinking.

Having attended many an Al-Anon and ACOA meeting I have heard this rant before and of course from my alcoholic mate - ah so...

hehehehe with a brogue Lawson would make a good Irishmen who have the way with words - they seldom though find fault with their women and they do not seem to need to justify their drinking but they sure can wax poetic about it.

Still I see in my fancy the dark-green and blue
Of the box covered hills where the five-corners grew;
And the ragged old sheoaks that sighed in the bend
O'er the lily-decked pools where the dark rides end,
And the scrub-covered spurs running down from the Peak
To the deep grassy banks of Eurunderee Creek

On the knolls where the vineyards and fruit-grdens are
There's a beauty tht even the drought cannot mar;
As I trod on the siding where lingered the frost,
When the shadowsof night from the gullies were gone.
And the hills in the background were flushed by the dawn.

I was there in late years, but there's many a change
Where the Cudgegong River flows down through the range,
For the curse of the town with the railroad had come
And the goldfields were dead. And teh girl and the chum
And the old home were gone, yet the oaks seemed to speak
Of the hazy old days on Eurunderee Creek.

And I stood by that creek, ere the sunset grew cold,
When teh leaves of the sheoaks are traced on the gold
And I thought of old things, and I thought of old folks,
Till I sighed in my heart to the sigh of the oaks;
For the years waste away like the waters that leak
Through the pebles and sand of Euranderee Creek.

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

I picked this poem because I was looking out at my oak trees that line the road next to Evergreen Prkwy where I live. That's where the road got its name. Someone was just telling me that these Oak trees have been here since the 1950s and somebody else said they are even older. If I close my eyes I can see a sleepy little town of Hillsboro covered with these trees where now there is cement, apartments, and malls. And I was feeling how the years waste away...

Henry Lawson

How very 'Mary Oliver'...and I thought, wouldn't it be lovely if I touched things so gently that even hard surface like porcelain I would find tender, which it is when you think about it if you keep it so.

I love being reminded of Mary Oliver's sense of dynamics between people and objects and people and nature and people and people.

It's a tender person who can bring out another's soft side.

Alliemae

If you think that your profession has the more gentility,
And that you are condescending to be seen along with me;
If you notice that I'm shabby while your clothes are spruce and
new
You have only got to hint it: I'm a prouder man than you!

If you have a swell companion when you see me on the street,
And you think that I'm too common for your toney friend to meet,
So that I, in passing closely, fail to come within your view -
Then be blind to me for ever: I'm a prouder man than you!

If your character be blameless, if your outward past be clean,
While 'tis known my antecedents are not what they should have
been,
Do not risk contamination, save your name whate'er you do -
'Birds of feather fly together': I'm a prouder bird than you!

Keep your patronage for others! Gold and station cannot hide
Friendship that can laugh at fortune, friendship that can conquer
pride!
Offer this as to an equal - let me see that your are true,
And my wall of pride is shattered: I am not so proud as you!

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

I think this poem was written in tongue and cheek. I can't help but wonder what Lawson must have gone through in order for him to write this poem. My grandfather used to tell me that when he first came to America from Greece that very often those who were born here or who came first would look to him as if he were below them. He used to tell me that if someone thinks of you in a negative way it is there problem not yours. He advised me to let whatever was said roll off my back. I've always remembered that.

While you use your best endeavour to immortalise in verse
The gambling and the drink which are your country's greatest curse,
While you glorify the bully and take the spieler's(*) part --
You're a clever southern writer, scarce inferior to Bret Harte.

If you sing of waving grasses when the plains are dry as bricks,
And discover shining rivers where there's only mud and sticks;
If you picture `mighty forests' where the mulga(**) spoils the view --
You're superior to Kendall, and ahead of Gordon too.

If you swear there's not a country like the land that gave you birth,
And its sons are just the noblest and most glorious chaps on earth;
If in every girl a Venus your poetic eye discerns,
You are gracefully referred to as the `young Australian Burns'.

But if you should find that bushmen -- spite of all the poets say --
Are just common brother-sinners, and you're quite as good as they --
You're a drunkard, and a liar, and a cynic, and a sneak,
Your grammar's simply awful and your intellect is weak.

Henry Lawson

The song and the sign went winding by,
Went winding down;
Circling the foot of the mountain high,
And the hillside brown.

They were hushed in the swamp of the Dead Man's Crime,
Where the curlews cried;
But they reached the river the self-same time,
And thee they died.

And the creek of life goes winding on,
Wandering by;
And bears for ever, its course upon,
A song and a sigh.

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

I like the last stanza of this poem: And the creek of life goes winding on/ wndering by;/And bears for ever, its course upon/ a song and a sigh.

Main Entry: rouse·about Pronunciation: 'rau-z&-"baut Function: noun Australian : an unskilled worker"

I selected this poem because I didn't know the meaning of Rouseabout. One of the joys I've experienced while reading Henry Lawson and the other Australian poets is that there are so many words I didn't know and I love learning new words, especially since these Australian words are so expressive sounding I can't resist them. I added in the definition just in case anyone else wasn't familiar with the word.

Middleton's Rouseabout

Tall and freckled and sandy,
Face of a country lout;
This was the picture of Andy,
Middleton's Rouseabout.

Type of a coming nation,
In the land of cattle and sheep,
Worked on Middleton's station,
`Pound a week and his keep.'

On Middleton's wide dominions
Plied the stockwhip and shears;
Hadn't any opinions,
Hadn't any `idears'.

Swiftly the years went over,
Liquor and drought prevailed;
Middleton went as a drover,
After his station had failed.

Type of a careless nation,
Men who are soon played out,
Middleton was: -- and his station
Was bought by the Rouseabout.

Flourishing beard and sandy,
Tall and robust and stout;
This is the picture of Andy,
Middleton's Rouseabout.

Now on his own dominions
Works with his overseers;
Hasn't any opinions,
Hasn't any `idears'.

Alliemae

They say that man is made of dirt, and die, of course, he must;
But all the same, a man is made of pretty solid dust.
There is a thing that they forget, so let it here be writ,
That some are made of common mud, and some are made of GRIT;
Some try to help the world along while others fret and fume
And with that they were slumbering in the silence of the tomb.

'Twixt mother's arms and coffin-gear a man has work to do!
And if he does his very best he mostly worries through,
And while there is a wrong to right, and while the world goes
around,
An honest man alive is worth a million underground.
And yet, as long as sheoaks sigh and wattle-blossoms bloom,
The world shall hear the drivel of the poets of the tomb,

And though the graveyard poets long to vanish from the scene,
I notice that they mostly wish their resting - place kept green.
Now, were I rotting underground, I do not think I'd care
If wombats rooted on the mound or if the cows camped there;
And should I have some feelings left when I have gone before,
I think a ton of solid stone would hurt my feelings more.

Such wormy songs of mouldy joys can give me no delight;
I'll take my chances with the world. I'd rather live and fight.
Though Fortune laughs along my track, or wears her blackest frown,
I'll try to do the world some good before I tumble down.
Let's fight for things that ought to be, and try to make 'em boom;
We cannot help mankind when we are ashes in the tomb.

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

I like this poem. I think he has the right idea. "Let's fight for things that ought to be, and try to make 'em boom;/We cannot help mankind when we are ashes in the tomb." The time is now to do something for our fellow man/woman; not after we are six feet under.

What first came shining very brightly into my mind when I read this poem and especially Scrawler's words, "I like this poem. I think he has the right idea. 'Let's fight for things that ought to be, and try to make 'em boom;/We cannot help mankind when we are ashes in the tomb.' The time is now to do something for our fellow man/woman; not after we are six feet under."

...was this excerpt from Longfellow's "Psalm of Life":

"Trust no Future, howe're pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living present!
Heart within and God o'erhead!"

And it's wonderful to see how each poet's own style--each of their very distinctive manners of speaking and expressing themselves-- though so different, states ultimately the same ideal:

"Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait."

To LIFE!!

Alliemae

And he said: 'If you'd be happy, you must clip your fancy's wings,
Stretch your conscience at the edges to teh size of earthly
things;
Never fight another's battle, for a friend can never know
When he'll gladly fly for succour to the bosom of the foe,
At the power of truth and friendship let your lip in scorn be
curled-
'Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.

'Where Society is mighty, always tuckle to her rule;
Never send an 'i' undotted to the teacher of a school;
Only fight a wrong or falsehood when the crowd is at your back,
And, till Charity repay you, shut the purse, and let her pack;
At the fools who would do other let your lip in scorn be curled,
'Self and Pelf', my friend, remember that's the motto of the world.

'Ne'er assail the shaky ladders Fame has from her niches hung,
Lest unfriendly heels above you grind your fingers from the rung;
Or the fools who idle under, envious of your fair renown,
Heedless of the pain you suffer, do their worst to shake you down.
At the praise of men, or censure, let your lip in scorn be curled,
'Self and Pelf', my friend remember, is the motto of the world.

'Flowing founts of inspiration leave the sources parched and dry,
Scalding tears of indignation scar the hearts that beat too high;
Chilly waters thrown upon it drown the fire that's in the bard:
And the banter of the critic hurts his heart till it grows hard.
At the fame your muse may offer let your lip in scorn be curled.
'Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the
world.

'Shun the fields of love, where lightly, to a low and mocking
tune.
Strong and useful lives are ruined, and the broken hearts are
strewn.
Not a farthing is the value of the honest love you hold;
Call it lust, and make it serve you! Set your heart on nought but
gold.
At the bliss of purer passions let your lip in scorn be curled-
'SElf and Pelf;, my friend shall ever be the motto of the world.'

Then he ceased and looked intently in my face, and nearer drew;
But a sudden deep repugnance to his presence thrilled me throuhg,
Then I saw his face was cruel, by the look that o'er it stole,
Then I felt his breath was poison, by shuddering of my soul.
Then I guessed his purpose evil, by his lip in sneering curled. And I knew he slandered mankind, by my knowledge of the world.

But he vanished as a purer brighter presence gained my side-
'Heed him not! there's truth and friendship
in this wondrous world.' she cried.
And of those who cleave to virtue in their climbing for renown,
Only they who faint or falter from the height are shaken down.
At a cynic's baneful teaching let your lip in scorn be curled!
'Brotherhood and Love and Honour!" is the motto of the world.' ~"In the Days When the World Was Wide" Henry Lawson

If only we could believe that there is: truth and friendship in this wondrous world and that the motto of the world is: 'Brotherhood and Love and Honour!' Yet sometimes I fear that it is 'ghost' that is seen and that 'self and pelf' is the motto of the world. If only man/woman could see the 'sameness' in others instead of the 'differences' what a world this would be.

The light of passion in dreamy eyes, and a page of truth will
read,
The glorious thrill in a heart grown cold of the spirit I thought
was dead,
A song that goes to a comrade's hert, and a tear of pride let
fall-
And my soul is strong! and the world to me is a grand world
after all!

Let our enemies go by their old dull tracks,
and theirs be the fault or shame
(The man is bitter against the world who has only himself to
blame);
Let the darkest side of the past be dark, and only the good
recall;
For I must believe that the world, my dear, is a kind world
after all.

It well may be that I saw too plain, and it may be I was blind;
But I'll keep my face to the dawning light,
though the devil may sand behind!
Though the devil may stand behind my back, I'll not see his
shadow fall,
But read the signs in the morning stars of a good world after all.

Rest, for your eyes are weary, girl - you have driven the worst
away -
The ghost of the man that I might have been is gone from my heart
to-day;
We'll live for life and the best it brings till our twilight
shadows fall;
My heart grows brave and the world, my girl, is a good world
after all.

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

I'd like to think that the world is good and that we all should "live for life and the best it brings till our twilight shadows fall!"

I have to follow BaBi and thank you Scrawler for finding us this poem today. As she pointed out in Lawson's words...""It well may be that I saw too plain, and it may be I was blind;"...

Scrawler, you have been an answer to this fellow traveler's prayer of this morning and I thank you too, from the bottom of my heart, for giving me a revived perspective by posting this poem.

By the way...I also must say, "At last, a Henry Lawson poem I MUST memorize and keep in my heart with the rest of my 'earthly armor'..."

Alliemae

When the train finally got to its last stop in Santa Fe, right before California there would be scrubbing and laundry and boot cleaning and especially beard shaving, leaving each man's face two-toned...the top being a ruddy, sun-drenched glory and the lower half white as a new-born babe!

I really liked this poem...so evocative of a happy and unforgetable past! Thank you anna!!

Alliemae

Walking-coat from tail to throat is
Frayed and greened-
Like a man whose other coat is
Being cleaned;
Gone for ever round the edging
Past repair -
Waistcoat pockets frayed with dredging
After 'sprats' no longer there.

Wearing summer boots in June, or
Slippers worn and old -
Like a man whose other shoon are
Getting soled.
Pants? They're far from being recent-
But, perhaps, I'd better not-
Says they are the only decent
Pair he's got.

And his hat, I am afraid, is
Troubling him -
Past all lifting to the ladies
By the brim.
But, although he'd hardly strike a
Girl, would Dan.
Yet he wears his reckage like a
Gentleman!

Once - no matter how the rest dressed -
Up or down -
Once, they say, hew as the best-dressed
Man in town.
Must have been before I knew him -
Now you'd scarcely care to meet
And be noticed talking to him
In the street.

Drink the cause, and dissipation,
That is clear -
Maybe friend or kind relation
Cause of beer.
And the talking fool, who never
Reads or thinks,
Says, from hearsay: 'Yes, he's clever;
But, you know, he drinks.'

Been an actor and a writer-
Doesn't whine -
Reckoned now the best reciter
In his line.
Takes the stage at times, and fills it-
'Princess May' or 'Waterloo'.
Raise a sneer! - his first line kills it,
'Brings 'em, too.

Where he lives, or how, or wherefore
No one knows;
Lost his real friends, and therefore
Lost his foes.
Had, o doubt, his own romances -
Met his fate;
Tortured, doubtless, by the chances.
And the luck that comes too late.

Now and then his boots are polished,
Collar clean,
And the worst grease stains abolished
By ammonia or benzine:
Hints of some attempt to shove him
From the taps,
Or of someone left to love him -
Sister, p'r'aps.

After all, he is a grafter,
Earns his cheer-
Keeps the room in roars of laughter
When he gets outside a beer,
Yarns that would fall flat from others
He can tell;
How he spent his 'stuff, my brothers,
You know well.

Manners put a man in mind of
Old club balls and eving dress,
Ugly with a handsome kind of Ugliness.

One of those we say of often
While hearts swell,
Standing sadly by the coffin:
'He looks well.'

We may be - so goes a rumour-
Bad as Dan;
But we may not have the humour
Of the man;
Nor the sight - well, deem it blindness,
As the general public do-
And the love of human kindness,
Or the GRIT to see it through!

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

This is a rather long poem, but I like it. I especially like the last stanza. We may not like the fact that Dan is a drunk, but we cannot deny the fact he does have: "the love of human kindness/[and] the GRIT to see it through." Something we all could understand.

No break in its awful horizon,
No blur in the dazzling haze,
Save where by the bordering timber
The fierce, white heat-waves blaze,
And out where the tank-heap rises
Or looms when the sunlights wane,
'Till it seems like a distant mountain
Low down on the Great Grey Plain.

No sign of a stream or fountain,
No spring on its dry, hot breast,
No shade from the blazing noontide
Where a weary man might rest.
Whole years go by when the glowing
Sky never clouds for rain -
Only the shrubs of the desert
Grow on the Great Grey Plain.

From the camp, while the rich man's dreaming.
Come the 'traveller' and his mate,
In the ghastly dawnlight seeming
Like a swagman's ghost out late;
And the horseman blurs in the distance,
While still the stars remain,
A low, faint dust-cloud hunting
His track on the Great Grey Plain.

And all day long from before them
The mirage smokes away-
That daylight ghostof an ocean
Creeps close behind all day
With an evil, snake - like motion,
As the waves of a madman's brain:
'Tis a phantom NOT like water
Out there on teh Great Grey Plain.

There's a run on the Western limit
Where a man lives like a beast,
And a shanty in the mulga
That stretches to the East;
And the hopeless men who carry
Their swags and tramp in pain -
The footmen must not tarry
Out there on the Great Gray Plain.

Out West, where the stars are brightest,
Where the scorching north wind blows,
And the bones of the dead seem whitest,
And the sun on a desert glows -
Out back in the hungry distance
That brave hears dare in vain -
Where beggars tramp for existence -
There lies the Great Grey Plain.

'Tis a desert not more barren
Than the Great Grey Plain of years,
Where a fierce fire burns the hearts of men -
Dries up the fount of tears:
Where the victims of a greed insane
Are crushed in a hell-born strife -
Where the souls of a race are murdered
On the Great Grey Plain of Life!

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

I picked this poem because the last few days I too thought I was living on physical Great Grey Plain when our tempertures here in Oregon hit over 100 degrees with no air conditioning.

But I think think this poem refers more to the mental Great Grey Plain rather than to a physical place. When I read the last stanza: "Where the souls of a race are murdered/On the great Grey Plain of Life" it makes me think of the various wars where mankind has killed each other.

Cathie&Colby I just really started with poetry discussion group three poets ago and I love the way this one is set up...lots of leeway and good fellowship too! Welcome!

I don't really know much about Edna St. Vincent Millay so have been 'having a bit of a peek'...I hope a lot of you are familiar with her because sometimes I didn't understand her--but what I did understand I enjoyed! I'm really looking forward to this new experience with yet another new (for me) poet!

Alliemae

P.S. I do have a feeling I will on occasion miss this month's insightful, benignly bitter at times, dusty and disheveled wiseman however. He sure can call 'em like he sees 'em!

Oh it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin', in flies an' dust an'
heat,
Or it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-a-mpin' through mud and slush 'n
sleet:
They whine o' lost an wasted lives in idleness and crime -
I've wasted mine for twenty years, and grafted all the time
And never drunk the stuff I earned, nor gambled when I shore-
But somehow when yer on the track yer life seems wasted more.

A long dry stretch of thirty miles I've tramped this broilin' day.
All for the off-chance of a job a hundred miles away;
There's twenty hungry beggars wild for any job this year.
An' fifty might be at he shed while I am lyin' here

The sinews in my legs seem drawn, red-hot - 'n that's the truth;
I seem to weigh a ton, and ache like one tremendous tooth:
I'm stung between my should-blades-my blessed back seems broke;
I'm too knocked out to eat a bite - I'm too knocked up to smoke.

The blessed rain is comin' too - there's oceans in the sky.
An' I suppose I msut get up and rig the blessed fly;
The heat is bad, teh water's bad, teh flies a crimson curse,
The grub is bad, mosquitoes damned - but rhematism's worse.

I wonder why poor blokes like me will stick so fast ter breath,
Though Shakespeare says it is the fear of somethin' after death;
But though Eternity be cursed with God's almighty curse -
What ever that same somethin' is I swear it can't be worse.

For it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin'thro' hell across the
plain,
A livin' worse than any dog - without a home'n wife,
A-wearin' out yer hear 'n soul in the wastin' of yer life.

"In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

This reminds me of some of the stories my grandparents and parents told me about living and growing up during the Dpression. But one big difference is that no matter how hard things got they still managed to live a good life full of happiness over the simplest of pleasures.

Sing another dirge in wailing,
For another vessel sailing
With the shadow - ships at sea;
Shadow- ships for ever sinking -
Shadow - ships whose pumps are clinking,
And those thirsty holds are drinking
Pledges to Eternity.

Pray for souls of ghastly, sodden
Corpses, floating round untrodden
Cliffs, where nought but sea-drift strays:
Souls of dead men, in whose faces
Of humanity no trace is -
Not a mark to show their races
Floating round for days and days

Ocean's salty tongues are licking
Round the faces of the drowned,
And a cruel blade seems sticking
Through my heart and turning round.

Heaven! shall HIS ghastly, sodden
Corpse float round for days and days?
Shat it dash 'neath cliffs untrodden,
Rocks where noguth but sea-drift strays?

God in heaven! hide the floating,
Falling, rising, face from me;
God in heaven! stay the gloating,
Mocking singing of the sea!

~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

I usually enjoy poems about the ocean, but this one shows yet another picture of the ocean. One that I might not seem like I really want to picture in my mind's eye, but one that should be told none the less. It seemed to me that while I was reading this poem that the words themselves seemed to be crashing against the rocks in a rhythm not unlike the crashing of ocean waves against the rocks.

I like the way it raises its family
Partly birdly, partly mammaly.

I like its independent attitude.
Let no one call it a duck-billed platitude.

-- Ogden Nash

When the North was hale in the march of Time
and the South and the West were new,
And the gorgeous East was a pantomine, as it seemed in our
boyhood's view;
When Spain was first on the waves of change,
and pround in the ranks of pride,
And all was wonderful, new and strange in the days when the world
was wide.

Then a man could fight if his heart was bold,
and win if his faith were true -
Were it love, or honour, or power, or gold, or all that our hearts
pursue;
Could live to the world for the family name, or die for the family
pride,
Could fly from sorrow, and wrong, and shame
in the days when the world was wide.

They sailed away in the ships that sailed ere science controlled
the main
When the srong, brave heart of a man prevailed
as 'twill never prevail again;
They knew not whither, nor much they cared -
let Fate or the winds decide -
The worst of the Great Unknown they dared
in the days when the world was wide.

They raised new stars on the silent sea that filled their hearts
with awe;
they came to many a strange countree and marvellous sights they
saw.
The villagers gaped at the tales they told,
and old eyes glistened with pride -
When barbarous cities were paved with gold
in the days when the world was wide.

Twas honest metal and honest wood, in the days of the Outward
Bound,
When men were gallant and ships were good - roaming the wide world
round.
The gods could envy a leader then when 'Follow me, lads! he cried-
They faced each other and fought like men
in the day when the world was wide.

They tried to live as a freeman should - they were happier men
than we,
In the glorious days of wine and blood, when Liberty crossed the
sea;
Twas a comrade true or a foeman then, and a trusty sword well
tried-
in the days when the world was wide.

[to be continued] ~ "In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

It well may be that I saw too plain,
and it may be I was blind;
But I'll keep my face to the dawning light,
though the devil may stand behind!

Though the devil may stand behind my back,
I'll not see his shadow fall,
But read the signs in the morning stars
of a good world after all.

I'll also second BaBi's post #229 comments. What a life's testimony!

Alliemae, that "bewhiskered sidekick" you were trying to recall was likely Gabby Hayes. Here's a link to a good website dedicated to B-Westerns. http://www.b-westerns.com In left column there is a click-on to "sidekick pals"; and many good B-western links.

Annafair, thanks for permission to share yours with my widowed friend. Your copyright symbol at end of your shared poems here...makes us specifically seek permissions to do so. That's as it should be. As I understand it, Symbol indicates intention to copyright within two years...tho author might opt to never do so.

In this case in particular, your thoughts will share well with another widow-friend of mine. Thanks, Anna.

South, East, and West in advance of Time - and, ay! in advance
of Thought
Those brave men rose to a height subline - and is it for this
they fought?
And is it for this dammed life we praise the god - like spirit
that died
At Eureka Stockade in the Roaring Days
with the days when the world was wide?

We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts
we guard;<BR< Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch,
the sneer of a neak hits hard;
The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs,
decide-
They faced each other and fought like men
in the days when the world was wide.

Think of it all - of the life that is! Study your friends and
foes!
Study the past! and answer this: 'Are these times bettr than
those?'
The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your
poisoned pride!
No matter who fell it were better to fight
as they did when the world was wide.

Boast as you will of your mateship now - crippled and mean and sly
The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow
were traced since the days gone by.
There was room in the long, free lines of the van
to fight for it side by side -
There was beating - room for the heart of a man
in the days when the world was wide.

With its dull, brown days of a - shilling - an - hour
the dreary your drags round:
Is this the result of Old England's power?
- the bourne of the Outward Bound?
Is this the sequel of Westward Ho! - of the days of Whate'er
Betide!
We'll fight till the world grows wide!'

The world shall yet be a wider world - fro the tokens are
manifest;
East and North shall the wrongs be hurled that followed us South
and West.
The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn! Follow, whate'er betide!
Sons of the Exiles, march! March on! March till the world grows
wide!
"In the Days When the World Was Wide" ~ Henry Lawson

I picked this poem because to me it seemed to bring all of Lawson's feelings into one poem and so I thought it fitting that this should be one of the last that we try to analyze.

To me it seems that the speaker is thinking about the past and how it differs from the present: [Study the past! And answer this: 'Are these times better than those?']. He talks about exploration: [When Spain was first on the waves of change, and proud in the ranks of pride.]

And he talks about: [Is this [Australia today] the result of Old England's power?/ the bourne of the Outward Bound?/Is this the [present] the sequel of Westward Ho!]

And finally he speaks of the future: [The world shall yet be a wider world - for the tokens are manifest;]. And in the end in order to preserve our past and our present we must fight for our future [freedom] and if we do: [The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn! Follow, whate'er betide!/Sons of the Exiles, march! March on! March till the world grows wide!]

In many ways I see this poem not only about Australians, but also about Americans. After all weren't we also the sons and daughters of the Exiles and I think the poet is saying that if are to remain free; we must fight for our freedom in the hope that someday we will return to the days when the world was wide and free!

"My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But, ah, my foes, and, oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light."

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

Although I enjoy all the seasons, like Millay my favorite has to be Autumn as we cross from the heat of summer to the cold of winter. There is that special time to reflect not only what has happened in the days that have past, but also to reflect on the days ahead. Autumn to me is a bridge between past and future as it refers to the Autumn of one's days.

the part of us that is uncomfortable at best - in fact the part of us that when tapped often brings us shame - not embarrassment but the disabling feeling of shame that says we are not worthy.

This part I had to read again and again to realize she is not saying something positive she is suggesting that some of us or some times we are doing kind deeds in a flashy way, calling attention to our kindness and then she seems to make a quick switch to deeds done through indolence

I looked up indolence to be sure and yes, it means inactivity resulting from the dislike of work - I am not sure I get the connection here unless she is suggesting good deeds are something we do to call attention to ourselves or we do not do them at all because we do not like the work involved? This is where I am confused... because she goes on about high judgment given in haste; so maybe she is saying we do not want to take the time to do the work to understand and so we substitute being judgmental...???

the flashy green of kind
deeds done
Through indolence, high judgments given in haste;

What do you get out of that bit...?

Then she finishes the stave off with a bit of irony -

The recurring checker of the serious breach of taste?

After suggesting some serious flaws in our character she simply reduces them, although "serious," however a "breach of taste" - Millay is using a question mark therefore I wonder is she really saying so many others at the time see these flaws only as serious breach of taste and she is ironically pointing out as she says later in the poem Confession does not strip it off, therefore, with that phrase she comes down on the seriousness side of this behavior rather than the lighter and droll use of words breach of taste.

I like that you see it as her addressing her own regrets and maybe the confusion I see is a tug of conscious where we like to white wash our shaming behavior by seeing it only as a matter of taste rather than something worthy of Confession. hmmm

Cap D'Antibes

The storm is over, and the land has forgotten the storm; the

trees are still.

Under this sun the rain dries quickly.
Cones from the sea-pines cover the ground again
where yesterday for my fire I gathered all in sight;
but the leaves are meek. The smell of the small alyssum that

grows wild here

in in the air. It is a childish morning.

More sea than land am I; my sulky mind, whipped high by

tempest in the night, is not so soon appeased.

Into my occupations with dull roar
it washes,
it recedes.
Even as at my side in the calm day the disturbed

Mediterranean

lurches with heavy swell against the bird-twittering shore.

Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart, - Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me, - let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

What wonderful imagery! Can't you imagine the woods "crying out their colours" on an autumn day. It would seem that the poet echos all your thoughts about beauty and passion.

Summer 2001

A fireball sun rose steady,
steady and raw -
probing, testing

the long summer war.

Spent Fields lay dry,
dry and hard
bleached stubble seared

like a Gulf front yard.

The air is hot,
hot and fierce,
blowing, blaring

walls of crystal pyre.

Frame buildings low,
low and spread -
sides propped open

hide all who fled;

Their sweat is sharp,
sharp and bitter
courting brown wrinkles

cursing the eye,

The eye is clear,
clear and ready -
gazing free, fixed

on a malingering mirage.

A hawk glides high,
high, high and grand -
feathers soaring

un-roofs the land.

A live oak is shelter,
shelter and shade
lowing cattle lazing

where longhorns pervade.

Forever the sky,
blue and wide -
thunderclouds swell

north from the Gulf sea-lane.

Crickets are still,
still and many
gorge, glean, gather

summer’s seared remains.

The lightening rigid,
rigid and striate
ripping, rushing sheets of water

swelling every creek.

The summer sun was over a hundred
forty two days in a row, 'til
roads were closed, creeks ran high,

nine inches of rain in an hour.

"The selected Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay"

From the poem it seems Millay was suffering from the heat. But to me Wild swans or geese signal the approach of autum when they fly south for the winter. Perhaps in leaving her locked house and wishing that the swans would fly over the town the poet too wished to have autumn close at hand in order to stifle the heat. I took this poem to have a literal meaning to it, but it may also represent the coming of autumn in our own bodies.

I hope none of you minds my 'chuntering on' like this but I miss the group, even when I can't keep up with it and so I do want to stick with it.

I am waiting for my 'About Poetry' by Mary Oliver and like I said, I'm reading all the poems and discussion posts. And I will read a biography of Millay and hope I can take it!! So wish me well and if I ask too many questions or let off too much steam just let me know.

Thanks much, Alliemae

To Those Without Pity

Cruel of hearty, lay down my song.
Your reading eyes have done me wrong.
Not for you was the pen bitten,
and the mind wrung, and the song written.

P.S. great that this discussion urges us all to learn more - however we are each enough as we are bringing to this discussion our life experiences that we use when we react to a poem - we really can learn from each other - I know I do all the time in this discussion more than most. The diversity of our interpretation is what I think makes for a richer reading of each poem...

Counting-out Rhyme

Silver bark of beech, and sallow
Bark of yellow birch and yellow

Twig of willow.

Stripe of green in moosewood maple,
Colour seen in leaf of apple,

Bark of popple.

Wood of popple pale as moonbeam,
Wood of oak for yoke and barn-beam,

Wood of hornbeam.

Silver bark of beech, and hollow
Stem of elder, tall and yellow

Twig of willow.

Intense and terrible, I think, must be the loneliness
Of infants—look at all
The Teddy-bears clasped in slumber in slatted cribs
Painted pale-blue or pink.
And all the Easter Bunnies, dirty and disreputable, that deface
The white pillow and the sterile, immaculate, sunny, turning

pleasantly in space,

Dainty abode of Baby—try to replace them
With new ones, come Easter again, fluffy and white, and with a

different smell;

Release with gentle force from the horrified embrace,
That hugs until the stitches give and the stuffing shows,
His only link with a life of his own, the only thing he really
knows . . .
Try to sneak it out of sight.
If you wish to hear anger yell glorious
From air-filled lungs through a throat unthrottled
By what the neighbours will say;
If you wish to witness a human countenance contorted
And convulsed and crumpled by helpless grief and despair,
Then stand beside the slatted crib and say There, there, and take the
toy away.

Pink and pale-blue look well
In a nursery. And for the most part Baby is really good:
He gurgles, he whimpers, he tries to get his toe to his mouth;

he slobbers his food

Dreamily—cereals and vegetable juices—onto his bib;
He behaves as he should.

But do not for a moment believe he has forgotten Blackness; nor the deep Easy swell; nor his thwarted
Design to remain for ever there;
Nor the crimson betrayal of his birth into a yellow glare.
The pictures painted on the inner eyelids of infants juts before they
sleep,
Are not pastel.

"Sometimes I live in the country, 
Sometimes I live in town. 
Sometimes I take a great notion 
To jump into the river and drown."

No matter what I say
All that I really love
Is rain that flattens on the bay,
And the eel-grass in the cove;
The jingle-shells that lie and bleach
At the tide-line, and the trace
Of higher tides along the beach:
Nothing in this place

~ "The Selected Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay"

First she tells us what she loves and than she tells us there is "nothing in this place". To me the poet seems more concerned about herself than what is around her and like what the above passage suggests she hasn't learned anything from what she sees, but she should have.

Marj, with "Never May the Fruit Be Plucked" you've contributed a poem I absolutely LOVE by our poet of the monnth!!

Alliemae

Cut if you will, with Sleep's dull knife,
Each day to half its length, my friend, -
The years that Time takes off my life
He'll take from off the other end!

~ "The Selected Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay"

Personally, I don't think there are enough hours in the day as it is, I wouldn't want to have my day halved at all, but also don't want to go without my sleep. I don't quite follow the last to lines. What do you think she means by "The years that Time takes off my life/He'll take from off the other end!"

MACDOUGAL STREET

As I went walking up and down to take the evening air,

(Sweet to meet upon the street, why must I be so shy?)

I saw him lay his hand upon her torn black hair;

("Little dirty Latin child, let the lady by!")

The women squatting on the stoops were slovenly and fat,

(Lay me out in organdie, lay me out in lawn!)

And everywhere I stepped there was a baby or a cat;

(Lord, God in Heaven, will it never be dawn?)

The fruit-carts and clam-carts were ribald as a fair,

(Pink nets and wet shells trodden under heel)

She had haggled from the fruit-man of his rotting ware;

(I shall never get to sleep, the way I feel!)

He walked like a king through the filth and the clutter,

(Sweet to meet upon the street, why did you glance me by?)

But he caught the quaint Italian quip she flung him from the gutter;

(What can there be to cry about that I should lie and cry?)

He laid his darling hand upon her little black head,

(I wish I were a ragged child with ear-rings in my ears!)

And he said she was a baggage to have said what she had said;

(Truly I shall be ill unless I stop these tears!)

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied 
  Who told me time would ease me of my pain! 
  I miss him in the weeping of the rain; 
I want him at the shrinking of the tide; 
The old snows melt from every mountain-side, 
  And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane; 
  But last year's bitter loving must remain 
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!  

There are a hundred places where I fear 
  To go, -- so with his memory they brim! 
And entering with relief some quiet place 
Where never fell his foot or shone his face 
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"

"The Selected Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay"

Here's yet another poem about "sorrow." Once again I'd like to refer to something I quoted in another discussion: "Don't use karma like a weapon to blame yourself, fate, or anyone else for everything that goes wrong. It doesn't make sense to go so far in one direction that we are constantly overcome by feelings of guilt and shame; nor is it helpful to go overboard in the other direction and develop a nihuilistic approach as if nothing matters. As the Buddha said, stay blanced in all things." "Awakening to the Sacred" ~ Lama Surya Das

Don't you think that Millay is doing just that? She is using her karma to blame fate and in so doing so she is not in balance with the world around her. I can't help but wonder what was in her personal life to make her feel this way or did her writings have anything to do with her personal life at all. Sometimes we forget that what a poet writes about is not really personal at all, but he/she is simply expressing her thoughts on the subject.

"Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, "There is no memory of him here!"

This struck such a chord in me...here I have been!

And when it happens you wonder how on earth your friends don't lose patience with you because it feels just like that: "No...I don't want to go there...I'll only remember him!" and then we go somewhere else and I'm shattered because there is nothing there to remind me of him!

This poem by Millay I understand and also the next...and I wonder if some of these were written as she got older.

Thanks for bringing this one to us, BaBi.

Alliemae

Now it may be, the flower for me
Is this beneath my nose;
How shall I tell, unless I smell
The Carthaginian rose?

The fabric of my faithful love
No power shall dim or ravel
Whilst I stay here, - but oh, my dear
If I should ever travel!

"The Selected Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay"

Perhaps, you are right Hats maybe Millay does wear her heart on her sleeve. Certainly, we all respond differently to "sorrow." I for one tend to isolate myself from others when I'm depressed or sorrowful, but other people might feel the need to be with people when they feel sorrow.

I think Millay has shown through her poetry that she also isolated herself from others. I can relate to this. I too don't physically travel, but I do travel in my mind especially now that we have such tools as the Internet.

To me though there is a sense of hopelessness in Millay's poems and I think this is what disturbs me. I think you can be isolated and still have hope. In fact isolation can be a relief sometimes.

Like MarjV, "I sure can remember feelings like Millay writes in these 2 poems Babi and Hats"

"Kin to Sorrow" (Scrawler) and "Good Morning, Heartache" (Hats)

WOW...talk about 'cooperating with the inevitable' which Dale Carnegie used to talk about...

Two different times but one idea...

Hats, I wouldn't have connected that if you hadn't brought it to the discussion! Thanks! and Thank You, Scrawler for bringing that poem...seems we are on a roll of poems I 'get'...

Scrawler, I have found Lama Surya Das on line and will find his "Awakening to the Sacred"...the name sounded so familiar and now I understand why. His reminds me of Baba Ram Das's name from the 1960's and 1970's and his "Be Here Now" and "The Only Dance There Is."

Your "As the Buddha said, stay blanced in all things." is the key...and it never goes out of style.

Hats, re: Lament. This poem of Millay's has the most depth for me so far, being a mother of four children. And my favorite lines also are:

"Life must go on;
I forget just why."

Alliemae

The Dream  

Love, if I weep it will not matter, 
  And if you laugh I shall not care; 
Foolish am I to think about it, 
  But it is good to feel you there.  

Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking, -- 
  White and awful the moonlight reached 
Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere, 
  There was a shutter loose, -- it screeched!  

Swung in the wind, -- and no wind blowing! -- 
  I was afraid, and turned to you, 
Put out my hand to you for comfort, -- 
  And you were gone!  Cold, cold as dew,  

Under my hand the moonlight lay! 
  Love, if you laugh I shall not care, 
But if I weep it will not matter, -- 
  Ah, it is good to feel you there!

"Son, said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
"You've need of clothes to cover you,
And not a rag have I.

"There's nothing in the house
To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with
Nor thread to take stitches.

"There's nothing in the house
But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman's head
Nobody will buy,"
And she began to cry.

That was in the early fall.
When came the late fall,
"Son," she said, "the sight of you
Makes your mother's blood crawl,-

"Little skinny shoulder-blades
Sticking through your clothes!
And where you'll get a jacket from
God above knows

"It's luck for me, lad,
Your daddy's in the ground
And can't see the way I let
His son go around!"
And she made a queer sound.

That was in the late fall.
When the winter came,
I'd not a pair of breeches
Nor a shirt to my name.

[to be continued] ~ "The Selected Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay"

I thought it was interesting that the critics felt that her reputation was damaged because her poetry was in support of the Allied war effort during WWII. I wonder why they thought that. Here in America we tend think that support for the Allied forces was a good thing. But than again she was also known for her unconventional, bohemian lifestyle and her many love affairs with men and women.

I couldn't go to school,
Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
Passed our way.

"Son," said my mother
"Come, climb into my lap
And I'll chafe your little bones
While you take a nap.

And, oh, but we were silly
For half an hour or more,
Me with my long legs
Dragging on the floor.

A-rock-rock-rocking
To a mother-goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
For half an hour's time!

But there was I, a great boy
And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
To sleep all day,
In such a daft way?

Men say the winter
Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
And food was dear.

A wind with a wolf's head
Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
And sat on the floor.

All that was left us
Was a chair we couldn't break,
And the harp with a woman's head
Nobody would take.

(to be continued) ~"The Selected Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay"

At least the boy seemed to be a little happy while he sat in his mother's lap. It seems to me that they are both so far down that the only way left is up!

The night before Christmas
I cried with the cold
I cried myself to sleep
Like a two-year-old.

And in the deep night
I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
With love, in her eyes

I saw my mother sitting
On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
From I couldn't tell where,

Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman's head
Leaned against her shoulder

Her thin fingers, moving
In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
Wonderful things.

Many bright threads
From where I couldn't see,
Were running through the harp-strings
Rapidly,

And gold threads whisling
Through my mother's hand.
I saw the web grow,
And the pattern expand.

"The Selected Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay"

The mention of Christmas Eve reminded me of when our house burnt to the ground a week before Christmas in 1972. All we had were the clothes on our backs. My children were two and three and it was very hard for me to try to explain to them why Santa Claus might not come. We had also lost all the Christmas presents as well, but what sticks in my mind about this experience was the way my neighbors responded to our plight. All my neighbors from miles around got together and had a big party for us. They brought clothes, and just about everything we would need to start new and even toys for the kids. My insurance man was there and because I worked for him, he had gone out of his way to get a check and gave it to us that night. In addition my realtor found us a nice condo. I've never forgotten that experience. It really brought home to me the true meaning of Christmas.