Adam Lindsay Gordon


IN Collins Street standeth a statute tall, A statue tall, on a pillar of stone, Telling its story, to great and small, Of the dust reclaimed from the sand waste lone; Weary and wasted,

The Last Leap

ALL is over! fleet career, Dash of greyhound slipping thongs, Flight of falcon, bound of deer, Mad hoof-thunder in our rear, Cold air rushing up our lungs, Din of many tongues. Once again, one

The Swimmer

With short, sharp violent lights made vivid, To the southward far as the sight can roam, Only the swirl of the surges livid, The seas that climb and the surfs that comb, Only the

An Exile's Farewell

The ocean heaves around us still With long and measured swell, The autumn gales our canvas fill, Our ship rides smooth and well. The broad Atlantic’s bed of foam Still breaks against our prow;

A Dedication

They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less Of sound than of words, In lands where bright blossoms are scentless, And songless bright birds; Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses, Insatiable

Whispering in Wattle – Boughs

OH, gaily sings the bird! and the wattle-boughs are stirred And rustled by the scented breath of Spring; Oh, the dreary wistful longing! Oh, the faces that are thronging! Oh, the voices that are

The Sick Stockrider

Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade. Old man, you’ve had your work cut out to guide Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when

Thora's Song ('Ashtaroth')

We severed in Autumn early, Ere the earth was torn by the plough; The wheat and the oats and the barley Are ripe for the harvest now. We sunder’d one misty morning Ere the

A Song of Autumn

‘WHERE shall we go for our garlands glad At the falling of the year, When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad, When the boughs are yellow and sere? Where are the old ones