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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408540" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Voice from the City</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">On western plain and eastern hill<br>Where once my fancy ranged,<br>The station hands are riding still<br>And they are little changed.<br>But I have lost in London gloom<br>The glory of the day,<br>The grand perfume of wattle bloom<br>Is faint and far away. <br>Brown faces under broad-brimmed hats<br>The grip of wiry hands,<br>The gallops on the frosty flats,<br>Seem dreams of other lands;<br>The camp fire and the stars that blaze<br>Above the mystic plain<br>Are but the thoughts of vanished days<br>That never come again. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The evening star I seldom view—<br>That led me on to roam—<br>I never see the morning star<br>That used to draw me home.<br>But I have often longed for day<br>To hide the few I see,<br>Because they only point and say<br>Most bitter things to me. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I wear my life on pavement stones<br>That drag me ever down,<br>A paltry slave to little things,<br>By custom chained to town.<br>I’ve lost the strength to strike alone,<br>The heart to do and dare—<br>I mind the day I’d roll my swag<br>And tramp to—God-knows-where. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When I should wait I wander out,<br>When I should go I bide—<br>I scarcely dare to think about<br>The days when I could ride.<br>I would not mount before his eyes,<br>‘Straight’ Bushman tall and tan—<br>I mind the day when I stood up<br>And fought him like a man. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I mind the time when I was shy<br>To meet the brown Bush girls—<br>I’ve lunched with lords since then and I<br>Have been at home with earls:<br>I learned to smile and learned to bow<br>And lie to ladies gay—<br>But to a gaunt Bushwoman now<br>I’d not know what to say. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And if I sought her hard bare home<br>From scenes of show and sham,<br>I’d sit all ill at ease and fell<br>The poor weak thing I am.<br>I could not meet her hopeless eyes<br>That look one through and through,<br>The haggard woman of the past<br>Who once thought I was true. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But nought on earth can last for aye,<br>And wild with care and pain,<br>Some day by chance I’ll break away<br>And seek the Bush again.<br>And find awhile from bitter years<br>The rest the Bush can bring,<br>And hear, perhaps, with truer ears<br>The songs it has to sing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</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=408540" data-title="A Voice from the City de Henry Lawson" data-description="On western plain and eastern hill
Where once my fancy ranged,
The station hands are riding still
And they are little changed.
But I have lost in London gloom
The glory of the day,
The grand perfume of wattle bloom
Is faint and far away. 
Brown fac..."></div>
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