How to escape the bondage of the past?
I fly thee, yet my spirit finds no calms
Save when she deems her rocked within those arms
To which, from which she ne'er was caught or cast.

O sadness of a heart so spent in vain,
That drank its age's fuel in an hour:
For whom the whole world burning had not power
To quick with life the smouldered wick again!

Great noble Peere, and honour'd Earle of worth,
Entred upon the stage from honour'd birth,
O 'tis no wonder if your vertues send
Raies gorgeously , your noblenes attend;
Great vertues do you wait upon as Queen,
In whom is nought but gorgeously is seen,
Vertue displayeth forth the truest ray,
Shining far brighter then the brightest day.

Lustrous must needs the beams of vertues than,
In you so gorgeous , make a gorgeous man,
Nothing displaying but the raies of light,
Declaring noble Sir, that you are bright,

The pub that lost its licence
Was very quaint and old;
'Twas built before the railway,
Before the days of gold.
The pub that lost its licence
Was built of solid stone
And good Australian hardwood
In fashion all its own.

They build of bricks and softwood
Their narrow shells and high;
They build with iron girders
And build 'em to the sky:
The " joiners " rush and hurry,

Sons of the South, awake! arise!
Sons of the South, and do.
Banish from under your bonny skies
Those old-world errors and wrongs and lies
Making a hell in a Paradise
That belongs to your sons and you.

Sons of the South, make choice between
(Sons of the South, choose true)
The Land of Morn and the Land of E'en,
The Old Dead Tree and the Young Tree Green,
The Land that belongs to the lord and Queen,
And the Land that belongs to you.

You know of the poet or artist—you children of Sorrow and Sin—
Whose humour has made you chuckle, whose humour has made you grin,
Whose humour has made you laugh outright, in the height of your misery—
But, say, have you ever wondered what manner of man is he?

You picture him large and hearty, you picture him free from care,
With plenty of friends and money and worshippers everywhere.
You never think of him, never, as one of the rank and file—
But he's often a man with a broken heart who is seldom seen to smile.

There's a man that I am looking for, and I'll meet him by and by:
I'll know him by his furtive smirk and by his shifty eye,
I'll know him by his sidelong looks and by his hangdog air;
And when I meet that evil man, there'll be some trouble there.

I'll lure him from his den with guile and fill him up with beer,
And draw him out and take him down until my case is clear:
I'll tell him cunning lies the while we pledge the loving cup —
I'll want some notes to write a sketch — but he won't set it up.

My boyish heart in thee confided,
For to the great by thee 't was guided.
As man, my waiting is for thee, —
The Northern cause with thee, with thee!

Rich lands and talents are thy dower,
But fallow lie thy wealth and power.
Thou must the North in concord bind,
Or never shalt thy true self find.

There 's longing in thy folk arisen,
Poetic hope — but yet in prison.
Though forces great within thee dwell,
Thou art not wholly sound and well.

Too many things are undertaken,
Too oft the task is soon forsaken.

What does the woman sing to the love-seed under her heart?

" Oh, my beloved, unborn,
Oh, lips in the darkness that yet shall be kissing my breast:
I send my life-blood into you,
And great love upon you:
Hushed in the pool of the dark you blossom in me!

" Beloved! I make this charge upon you:
When out of my littleness you come to the sudden vastness,
And faces are about you, and cities, and the winds of the deep:
Fear nothing, baby:
My arms are there: my breasts: your mother meets you! "

I see your honour, Marques honoured,
And you may very well hold up your head,
Marques admired, sith you are on by ,
Entred aloft, on noble dignity;
So very well indeed may you seemtal ,

Having transcendent honours you befall,
A Marques high, in S COTLAND of great blood,
Made Earle of A RRAN , and of C AMBRIDGE Lord,
Invested in three severall Baronies,
Letting your honour yet still higher rise,
The Horses Master to his Majestie,
Of G EORGE a Knight you are heroikly,
Nor are you from the Privie Counsell barr'd,

The writer of many books was weary:
" Enough of ink! " said he, " Enough of words!
Would I were a builder of bridges or a breaker of stones ...
Then at least something real were done ... "

Out on a lonely farm in Montana, at the close of day,
The woman brooding toward insanity,
Lit a lamp, and looked in his book: and the tears came:
And the ice-pack round her heart melted down in a torrent ...
Blessed release!

Far in Texas a tubercular boy was plotting a marriage,
But he read the tale, and his heart broke in his breast ...