English

Now is the seed-time: God alone,
Beyond our vision weak and dim,
Beholds the end of what is sown;
The harvest-time is hid with him.

It may not be our lot to wield
The sickle in the ripened field,
Nor ours to hear on summer eves
The reaper's song among the sheaves;

Yet where our duty's task is wrought
In unison with God's great thought,
The near and future blend in one,
And whatsoe'er is willed, is done!

Who calls the glorious labor hard?
Who deems it not its own reward?

Hast thou, midst life's empty noises,
Heard the solemn steps of time,
And the low, mysterious voices
Of another clime?
Early hath life's mighty question
Thrilled within thy heart of youth
With a deep and strong beseeching —
What, and where, is Truth?

Not to ease and aimless quiet
Doth the inward answer tend,
But to works of love and duty
As our being's end;
Not to idle dreams and trances,
Folded hands and solemn tone,
But to faith, in daily striving
And performance shown;

Unto the calmly gathered thought
The innermost of truth is taught, —
The mystery, dimly understood,
That love of God is love of good;

That to be saved is only this, —
Salvation from our selfishness;
From sin itself, and not the pain
That warns us of its chafing chain:

That worship's deeper meaning lies
In mercy, and not sacrifice, —
Not proud humilities of sense,
But love's unforced obedience;

That God is near us now as when
He spake in old-time faith and men;

Mount Tiantai is the sacred flower of all mountain ranges. Cross the sea and you will find Fangzhang and Penglai; turn inland and you will come to Siming and Tiantai, all of them places where the sages of the occult wander and perform their transformations, where the holy immortals have their caves and dwellings. The endlessly soaring shapes of these ranges, their miraculous beauty exhaust the wealth and wonder of mountain and sea, embrace all that is brave and admirable among gods and men.

My strength plucked up the hills,
my might shadowed the world
But the times were against me
and Dapple runs no more
When Dapple runs no more,
what then can I do?
Ah Yu, my Yu,
what will your fate be?

In this world there lives a Mighty One
Who dwells in the Middle Continent.
Though his mansion stretches ten thousand miles,
He is not content to remain in it a moment
But, saddened by the sordid press of the vulgar world,
Nimbly takes his way aloft and soars far away.
With crimson carriage flags interwoven with crystal rainbows,
He mounts upon the clouds and wanders on high;
He raises his long standard of yellow flame
Tipped with multicolored plumes of shimmering radiance,
Streaming with starry pennants

He'd been for years in Sydney " a-acting of the goat " ,
His name was Joseph Swallow, " the Great Australian Pote " ,
In spite of all the stories and sketches that he wrote.

And so his friends held meetings (O narrow souls were theirs!)
To advertise their little selves and Joseph's own affairs.
They got up a collection for Joseph unawares.

They looked up his connections and rivals by the score —
The wife who had divorced him some twenty years before,
And several politicians he'd made feel very sore.

One New Year's eve, in ninety-one or two — I'm not sure when —
(Ah, me! How many New Year's eves have come and gone since then!)
I lived — or died — at Milson's Point, in Campbell Street, I think:
And I was dying there alone that evening for a drink.
The landlady was out to buy our New Year's leg of swine,
The others on their own affairs; and I was in on mine.

I sat alone till half-past eight — alone with thirst and sin —
When one who'd blown across the strait — Fred Broomfield — thundered in.

It is superficial smartness wins the mob that rules the hour,
And their vulgar, brutal laughter lifts the Nobody to power.
So the “smart” or “clever” verses in the most unjust attack
Bring the mean and wavering “friends” of your opponent to your back.
Leave my enemy and me to fight it out—to make amends—
I have no time for the plaudits of his once admiring friends.

Do you mind the tent and camp-fire in the moonlight by Cape Howe?
Do you ever pause and ponder, “Were we happier then than now?”

In vanished days of want and sin
The Lone Hand was the Bulletin ,
And, far and wide throughout the land,
The Bulletin was a lone hand.
The lone hand in the days of old,
He worked alone in search of gold;
The lone hand in the days of youth,
He worked alone in search of truth;
The lone hand in the days of might,
He strikes alone to shield the right;
And countless scores in high command
Through all their lives play the lone hand.
O men and women, lined of brow!
And boys and girls who play it now!