A Song Of Winds
WOE to the weak when the sky is shrouded,
And the wind of the salt-way sobs as it dies!
Woe to the weak! for a great dejection
Droops their spirits and drowns their eyes.
Woe to the weak who tire of fetters,
Of grim life-fetters that gall and bind!
For the Sea tells stories of death made lovely,
And a siren sings in the nor'-east wind.
It wanders the coast like a tombless spectre,
And drips dank dew on the drooping leaf;
And the soul grows pensive with dim suggestions
Of grey old troubles and ancient grief.
'Tis grave and low, and with woeful plaining
Sighs death-notes under a sky of grey;
And who hath an ear may hear the voices
Of pale men dead on its streaked sea-way.
In fading twilights o'er sullen seascapes,
A lost, wan wind 'neath a dead grey sky,
It swoons to land like a weary swimmer,
Sobs and falters and turns to die.
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Sea-Seekers
ALL four of us were inland born
And inland reared from birth were we,
And — though the tale be food for scorn —
We four had never seen the Sea.
We saw the sun by day; by night
The stars threw down their radiance keen;
These things were held a goodly sight,
But still the Sea remained unseen.
The sunlit plains about us spread
Mile after mile on every side;
But still, the sea-wise people said,
The blue salt waste was wondrous wide.
On lonely rides and desert tramps,
And when we searched in rain and dew
The breathing dark of cattle-camps,
A longing came and thrilled us through.
We dreamt of waters spreading far,
Of winding bay and shining reach,
Of shouting reef and growling bar
And breakers crashing down a beach.
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Year's End
THE voices of the wind and wave
They sigh the Old Year's requiem;
The dead are calling from the grave —
Good friends, a little space I crave
To turn aside and think of them.
They were as even you and I
When you and I were young as they;
And yet they knew the way to die —
Come, think with me, and tell me why
It should be thus with hearts so gay.
Ah, blessed be the gracious God
Who, moulding us from clay and dew,
From morning dew and clay untrod,
So breathed Himself into the sod
That we, at best, grow Godlike, too.
For, treading pleasure underneath,
These glory-souls, our country's flower,
Arose responsive to that breath
And looked into the face of Death,
And did not tremble at his power.
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Currency Lass
THEY marshalled her lovers four and four,
A drum at their heads, in the days of old:
O, none could have guessed their hearts were sore;
They marched with such gayness in scarlet and gold.
They came to the dance place on the hill
Where Death was the piper (he pipes full well);
They grounded their arms and stood stock-still;
And just why he sorrowed no one would tell.
O, some had been wed in distant lands,
And sweethearts had others — but let that pass;
She held them at ease in snow-white hands,
For Queen over all was the Currency Lass.
They ushered her forth in all her charms —
Her eyes were alight and as gold her hair;
She looked on the men and oped her arms —
What wonder if then they had wished them there?
She hearkened the Preacher, thin and pale;
His voice was as frost, yet his words were wise;
But sin on the soul is like wrought mail,
And only a scorn of him fired her eyes.
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Soul Of The Anzac
THE form that was mine was brown and hard,
And thewed and muscled, and tall and straight;
And often it rode from the station yard,
And often it passed through the stockyard gate;
And often it paused on the grey skyline
'Twixt mulga and mallee or gum and pine.
There was never a task that it would not do;
There was never a labour it left undone;
But ever and always it battled through,
And took the rest that its toil had won,
And slept the sleep of the weary-limbed
Till the stars grew pale and the planets dimmed.
The form that was mine is mine no more,
For low it lies in a soldier's grave
By an alien sea on an alien shore;
And over its sleep no wattles wave,
And stars unseen on their journey creep;
But it wakes no more from its dreamless sleep.
O Mother of mine, what is is best!
And our graves are dug at the hour of birth;
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Red Mist
SHE thinks aloud as she sits alone,
And the magpies call in the evening grey —
Oh, sorrow to her with the heart of stone
Who stole my lover away, away!
There is no peace in the light of the moon,
And little enough in the shine of the sun;
And it's grieving and grieving that darkens the noon,
And troubles me sore till the salt tears run.
There's Joyce with the red cheeks says to me,
Herself as gay as a crowned young queen:
'It's pale you are, and it's sick, maybe;
And what is it ails your heart, Noreen?'
At that I say, with a laugh in my voice
(For grief is an ill, dark thing to show):
'It's you with your tricks and your capers, Joyce,
And the imp in your eyes that makes me so.'
There's one and another from near and far
Who come with their kind, sweet neighbour-speech;
'It's sick you look, and it's pale you are;
And what have you done with your bloom of the peach?'
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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Arnold Rode Behind
WE galloped down the sodden track
Close buttoned 'gainst the wind;
I took the lead with whip and spur,
And Arnold rode behind.
The skies were wild; a rending gale
Ran roaring through the trees;
It sounded now like shouting hosts,
And now like angry seas.
'Spur on! Spur on!' I turned and cried,
'The fatal moments fly!'
I cursed him then-his trembling hand-
I cursed his bloodshot eye.
I cursed him for the lust of drink
That held his will a slave;
For skill to tend and mend was his
To succour and to save.
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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God's Answer
BANNISTER, who lived for gain,
Counting love and mateship weak,
Bannister of Coolah Creek
Once, and once alone, 'tis said,
Bent his knees and bowed his head,
Praying God to send him rain.
Sheep and cattle were to him
Pounds and pence in wool and hide —
That, and nothing more beside;
Gain, and gain alone, he sought —
Bought and sold, and sold and bought —
Bannister, the shrewd and grim!
Drought might slay his neighbour's sheep,
Leave his friends with stricken lands,
Starving stock and empty hands,
Driving them to ruin's brink;
Not by so much as a wink
Did it cause him loss of sleep.
Loving neither man nor maid,
Man and maid no pity showed
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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God's Answer
BANNISTER, who lived for gain,
Counting love and mateship weak,
Bannister of Coolah Creek
Once, and once alone, 'tis said,
Bent his knees and bowed his head,
Praying God to send him rain.
Sheep and cattle were to him
Pounds and pence in wool and hide —
That, and nothing more beside;
Gain, and gain alone, he sought —
Bought and sold, and sold and bought —
Bannister, the shrewd and grim!
Drought might slay his neighbour's sheep,
Leave his friends with stricken lands,
Starving stock and empty hands,
Driving them to ruin's brink;
Not by so much as a wink
Did it cause him loss of sleep.
Loving neither man nor maid,
Man and maid no pity showed
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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The House of the Commonwealth
We sent a word across the seas that said,
"The house is finished and the doors are wide,
Come, enter in.
A stately house it is, with tables spread,
Where men in liberty and love abide
With hearts akin.
"Behold, how high our hands have lifted it!
The soil it stands upon is pure and sweet
As are our skies.
Our title deeds in holy sweat are writ,
Not red accusing blood -- and 'neath our feet
No foeman lies."
And England, Mother England, leans her face
Upon her hand and feels her blood burn young
At what she sees:
The image here of that fair strength and grace
That made her feared and loved and sought and sung
Through centuries.
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poem by Roderic Quinn
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