The Shadow-Third
THEY met in the old conventional way,
And married, and that was the end
Of a little matter that touched three hearts —
A girl, a man, and his friend.
You see, when he saw her great blue eyes
The love of his life began,
And — well — it was money the woman craved,
Not flesh and blood and a man.
She married, for money, her lover's friend —
And thus it came to be
That the man went out of life one night
As a wind goes out to sea.
She did not smile nor sorrow, they say;
She showed no sign of care,
But, ever since, 'twixt the wedded twain
There stands a vacant chair.
And when they stroll through the street at times,
Or pace some garden green,
They walk so spaced, it will seem to you
That a man might walk between.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Acushla
I NAMED her twice, I named her thrice,
I named her ten times over;
The wind heard, and the singing bird,
And the bee in the creamy clover.
Acushla! Acushla!
The cushat dove is cooing;
It's little that a man may do,
Whose heart is hot with wooing.
I left the field, the harvest yield —
The grain was ripe to falling —
And ran, and ran, a crazy man,
And I the whole time calling
'Acushla! Acushla!
The cushat dove is cooing;
When Love is keeping holiday,
What work is worth the doing?'
Her feet were fleet, her pretty feet
Upon the hill and hollow;
She bade me stay, she cried me nay,
And still her eyes said 'Follow!'
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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Just To Drift
DRIFTING down the Harbour,
Stars on high,
Lovers of the surface,
You and I,
Let us never pry and wonder
At the things that lie thereunder.
Underneath the surface
Silver-fair,
Let us never question
What lies there;
Lest we lose, like some robbed miser,
All our treasure, growing wiser.
Lo, it has the beauty
Of a flower!
Is it not sufficient
For the hour
Just to drift as mists are drifted,
Depths unplumbed and veils unlifted?
Where's the flawless jewel,
Stainless breast?
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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On The Barrier
ON the Barrier Ranges,
Grim, and grey and old,
Spring, the Maid of Wonder,
Spreads her cloth-of-gold;
Every hill and hollow
Carpeting with flowers —
O for feet to follow
Through the shining hours!
Once I saw the damsel —
Watched her at her task,
Basking in her glamour
As the lizards bask:
And, if I remember
Aught of gleam and glow,
'Tis that sweet September
Twenty years ago.
Twenty golden springtides —
Much — and yet how slight
Measured with that region,
Hollow-land and height;
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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An Empty Room
'THIS is the room where Pinksie died';
So runs the writing there on the wall.
The world outside is a golden tide
Of light, but here the shadows fall.
And who was Pinksie — a babe or wife?
A girl, I think, in her laughing teens,
Who passed away from the feast of life
When boys and girls are kings and queens.
I like to think that she laughed at whiles,
Her eyes alight with the imps of fun,
And knew no sorrow but such as smiles
The moment after the hurt is done.
They named her Pinksie, I have no doubt,
Because of the rich, soft blush she wore;
The roses paled ere they bore her out,
A slim child-figure, through yonder door.
She passed in the joy of her early bloom
To wide, dark realms where no planets roll.
And I write these lines in the empty room
Where Pinksie died. God rest her soul!
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Doing Nothing
WITH the sorrow on me
Neighbours come and go —
Think me vain and foolish
Nursing up my woe.
With the grief-blade in me
Keen and chill as steel —
Can I laugh like others,
Feel the joy they feel?
Since he died and left me
Things don't matter much,
Life, that danced and capered,
Limps upon a crutch.
Night and day I ponder,
Drawing weary breath —
Since to love we're moulded,
Why should there be death?
Night and day I'm asking
Him Who dwells above —
Since to death we're going,
Why should there be love?
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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Bequeathal
THE night-birds cry in the bush outside,
And I write here, though the hour be late;
And what shall I write of the man who died?
'He gave his gold to the poor at his gate!'
The line is written. Was that his all,
And did that all exhaust his love?
'Nay, nay, write on, while the night-birds call:
‘He gave his soul to his God above’!'
Say on; for in so rich a vein
More gold lay waiting to be proved.
' 'T was so! Write this, and write it plain:
‘He gave his heart to the wife he loved’!'
What more? 'What more dost thou require?
What more was left to give or take?
Yet more there was. Write this in fire:
‘He gave his life for his country's sake’!'
'Last gift of all, with courage fine,
Though far from stars that watched his birth.
He fell. Write then this final line:
‘He gave his clay to the aliens' earth’!'
poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Secret Pool
I KNOW a pool unknown to men,
Whose green and shadowed secrecy
I share alone with bird and tree,
And there, when I am sick at heart
And ill at ease, I draw apart
To bathe, and live, and love again.
All Summertide and all Spring through,
In its charmed neighbourhood, the thrush
And magpie, in the dying blush
Of sunset and the green of dawn —
Now nigh, and now in aisles withdrawn —
Make melody, each day anew.
And all night long the curious stars
Through peepholes in its dome of leaves
Peer down on it, while Silence weaves
A lovely spell, a magic calm
That soothes the soul like healing balm,
And breathes a peace that nothing mars.
Ah, sweet, indeed, it is to lave
And lose oneself within the cool,
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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A Wardrobe
I SAID 'The dark deed matters nought,
And this green gown becomes her well;
For phrase and rhyme oft hide the thought,
As pearls are hid 'twixt shell and shell.
'My Lady Lyric, go your way,
Dance daintily around the globe,
Nor mind what carping critics say,
Nor whence you got your shining robe.'
I have a wardrobe, quaintly hung
With brave brocade and gleaming silk,
Plumed hats, and collars richly strung,
With gems outgiving fire and milk.
No thief may raid its rare contents,
No years decay, nor moth devour;
It is not lavender that scents
The air, nor is it any flower.
Full fifty poets, day and night,
In mirth and pain and dark despair
Sat weaving for the world's delight
The wondrous fabrics shining there.
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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Love Magical
IF you had been where I have been
(Grey, grey the skies above),
And you had seen what I have seen,
You would not laugh at love.
Seek, seek till you find a rose
Red all through to its petal-tips,
And you shall know the curve of her mouth,
The scent of her breath and the red of her lips.
If you had heard what I have heard
(Dull, dull the beat of the sea).
Your heart would leap like a singing bird
Troubled and thrilled by ecstasy.
Stars sing in the dark o' the night,
Birds sing in the gold o' the noon;
Melody reigned in her speech a queen,
The song of the stars and the birds' tune.
The rose is dead that was her mouth
(Pale, pale on the earth it lies),
And East and West and North and South
The world is full of weeping eyes.
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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