Henry Lawson

Henry Lawson

1,000 карма
United Kingdom (Great Britain)

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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
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The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow,
For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go;
Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side — And tired of all...
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They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;
For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet My window-sill is level with the faces in the street — Drifting past, driftin...
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They say that I never have written of love,
As a writer of songs should do;
They say that I never could touch the strings With a touch that is firm and true;
They say I know nothing of women and men In the fields where Love's roses ...
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The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned, and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few, and the publican's looks were black — And ...
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Once I wrote a little poem which I thought was very fine,
And I showed the printer’s copy to a critic friend of mine,
First he praised the thing a little, then he found a little fault;‘The ideas are good,’ he muttered, ‘but the rhythm se...
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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...
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