Classic Poem

Beneath the midnight's louring murk
a sleepy rhymer tramped and curst
from Redfern O the weary work
and up the hill of Darlinghurst

and shadowless beneath no star
his brain mechanic whirl'd this thought
O had I found in some bazaar
what he who sold his shadow bought

but that my pain be not unshared
upon O'Reilly be the curse
who in his climbing well hath fared
to loose this tighten'd knot of verse.

It is a world as Whistler paints
in far-off chords of green and grey
where thro' soft leaves the daylight faints
and all life's rumours die away

and soften'd now the old grey stones
The gardens shrinking from an eye
scarce hint their joy in undertones
fountains rise voiceless to the sky

Shaped by the clear light's tender stroke
out of clear air to fade again
half-blithe, half sad a gracious folk
move lightly to an unheard strain.

These verses of a Decadent
subtle or builded to perplex
cunningly to your hand are sent
O Natural from my complex