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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408627" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Golden Gully</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">No one lives in Golden Gully, for its golden days are o’er,<br>And its clay shall never sully blucher-boots of diggers more,<br>For the diggers long have vanished — nought but broken shafts remain,<br>And the bush, by diggers banished, fast reclaims its own again.<br>Now, when dying Daylight slowly draws her fingers from the “Peak”,<br>The Weird Empress Melancholy rises from the reedy creek —<br>In the gap above the gully, while the dismal curlews scream<br>Loud to welcome her as ruler of the dreary night supreme —<br>Takes her throne, and by her presence fills the strange, uncertain air<br>With a ghostly phosphorescence of the horrors hidden there.<br>None would think, by camp-fire blazy, lighting fitfully the scene,<br>In the seasons that are hazy, how in seasons gone between,<br>Diggers yarned or joined in jolly ballads of the field and foam,<br>Or grew sad and melancholy over songs like “Home, Sweet Home” —<br>Songs of other times, demanding sullen tears that would not start,<br>Every digger understanding what was in his comrade’s heart.<br>It may seem to you a riddle how a poet’s fancies roam,<br>But methinks I hear a fiddle softly playing “Home, Sweet Home”<br>’Mid the trees, while meditative diggers round the camp-fire stand.<br>(Those were days before Australians learned to love their native land.)<br>Now the dismal curlew screeches round the shafts when night winds sough;<br>Startling murmurs, broken speeches, shake each twisted, tangled bough,<br>And whene’er the night comes dreary, darkened by the falling rain,<br>Voices, loud and dread and eerie, come again and come again —<br>Come like troubled souls forbidden rest until their tales are told —<br>Tales of deeds of darkness hidden in the whirl of days of gold —<br>Come like troubled spirits telling tales of dire and dread mishaps,<br>Kissing, falling, rising, swelling, dying in the dismal gaps.<br>When the coming daylight slowly lays her fingers on the “Peak”<br>Then the Empress Melancholy hurries off to swamps that reek.<br>But the scene is never cheery, be it sunshine, be it rain,<br>For the Gully keeps its dreary look till darkness comes again.<br>As you stand beside the broken shafts, where grass is growing thick,<br>You can almost hear a spoken word, or hear a thudding pick;<br>And your very soul seems sinking, foetid grows the morning air,<br>For you cannot help believing that there’s something buried there.<br>There’s a ring amid the saplings by a travelling circus worn,<br>That amused the noisy diggers e’er the rising race was born;<br>There’s a road where scrub encroaches that was once the main highway,<br>Over which two rival coaches dashed in glory twice a day;<br>Gone — all gone from Golden Gully, for its golden days are o’er,<br>And its clay shall never sully wheels of crowded coaches more.</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=408627" data-title="Golden Gully de Henry Lawson" data-description="No one lives in Golden Gully, for its golden days are o’er,
And its clay shall never sully blucher-boots of diggers more,
For the diggers long have vanished — nought but broken shafts remain,
And the bush, by diggers banished, fast reclaims it..."></div>
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