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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343956" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Black Swans</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">As I lie at rest on a patch of clover <br>In the Western Park when the day is done. <br>I watch as the wild black swans fly over <br>With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; <br>And I hear the clang of their leader crying <br>To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, <br>And they fade away in the darkness dying, <br>Where the stars are mustering one by one. <br>O ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder <br>For a while to join in your westward flight, <br>With the stars above and the dim earth under, <br>Trough the cooling air of the glorious night. <br>As we swept along on our pinions winging, <br>We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, <br>Or the distant note of a torrent singing, <br>Or the far-off flash of a station light. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, <br>Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, <br>Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes <br>Make music sweet in the jungle maze, <br>They will hold their course to the westward ever, <br>Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, <br>Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver <br>In the burning heat of the summer days. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting <br>To the folk that live in that western land? <br>Then for every sweep of your pinions beating <br>Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band, <br>To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting <br>With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, <br>Yet whose life somehow has a strong inviting, <br>When once to the work they have put their hand. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Facing it yet! O my friend stout-hearted, <br>What does it matter for rain or shine, <br>For the hopes deferred and the grain departed? <br>Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. <br>And thy health and strength are beyond confessing <br>As the only joys that are worth possessing. <br>May the days to come be as rich in blessing <br>As the days we spent in the auld lang syne. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I would fain go back to the old grey river, <br>To the old bush days when our hearts were light; <br>But, alas! those days they have fled for ever, <br>They are like the swans that have swept from sight. <br>And I know full well that the strangers' faces <br>Would meet us now is our dearest places; <br>For our day is dead and has left no traces <br>But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken-- <br>We should grieve for them with a bitter pain; <br>If the past could live and the dead could quicken, <br>We then might turn to that life again. <br>But on lonely nights we should hear them calling, <br>We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, <br>We should loathe the life with a hate appalling <br>In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the silent park a scent of clover, <br>And the distant roar of the town is dead, <br>And I hear once more, as the swans fly over, <br>Their far-off clamour from overhead. <br>They are flying west, by their instinct guided, <br>And for man likewise is his rate decided, <br>And griefs apportioned and joys divided <br>By a mightly power with a purpose dread. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Andrew+Barton+Paterson">Andrew Barton Paterson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343956" data-title="Black Swans de Andrew Barton Paterson" data-description="As I lie at rest on a patch of clover 
In the Western Park when the day is done. 
I watch as the wild black swans fly over 
With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun; 
And I hear the clang of their leader crying 
To a lagging mate in the rearwa..."></div>
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