1 min read
Слушать(AI)Rain in the Mountains
The Valley's full of misty cloud, Its tinted beauty drowning,
The Eucalypti roar aloud, The mountain fronts are frowning.
The mist is hanging like a pall From many granite ledges,
And many a little waterfall Starts o’er the valley’s edges.
The sky is of a leaden grey, Save where the north is surly,
The driven daylight speeds away, And night comes o’er us early.
But, love, the rain will pass full soon, Far sooner than my sorrow,
And in a golden afternoon The sun may set to-morrow.
Henry Lawson
Henry Archibald Hertzberg Lawson (17 June 1867 – 2 September 1922)[1] was an Australian writer and bush poet. Along with his contemporary Banjo
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
Poverty
I TE this grinding poverty— To toil, and pinch, and borrow, And be for ever haunted by The spectre of to-morrow It breaks the strong heart of a man, It crushes out his spirit—Do what he will, do what he can, However high his merit...
Reedy River
Ten miles down Reedy RiverA pool of water lies, And all the year it The changes in the skies Within that pool's broad
Fall In My Men Fall In
The short hour's halt is ended, The red gone from the west, The broken wheel is mended, And the dead men laid to rest
The Man from Waterloo With kind Regards to Banjo
It was the Man from Waterloo, When work in town was slack, Who took the track as bushmen do, And humped his swag out back He tramped for months without a bob, For most the sheds were full, Until at last he got a job At picking up th...
