Kilmore
Kilmore cares not who comes nigh.
But, with a calm, incurious eye,
She sees the swift cars speeding by,
Then turns again to labor.
She is content to plod along.
With now a sigh, when things go wrong,
And now a smile and now a song
Or gossip with a neighbor.
Her mind dwells often in the past,
The roaring days that could not last
When men might travel not so fast,
And all the world was bigger.
She saw the coaches clatter down
To pause at her important town
With loud-voiced venturers strong and brown,
And many a bearded digger.
She saw the eager traffic flow
Upon the road to Bendigo,
With talk of many a golden show,
Of finds and fields exciting.
But wisely she contrived to hold
A treasure greater far than gold,
Where her rich pasture lands unfold
A scene far more inviting.
She smiles to dream of those old days
Of hearty men and hectic ways
When, maddened by the golden craze,
Men sought their fortunes blindly.
But she, who chose the better part
Of patient toil and simple art,
Lives on, content of mind and heart,
And generous and kindly.
So, wealthy now, she sits at ease
In this kind land of fields and trees,
Ignoring all our flippancies
And modern fads and crazes.
And, where old buildings, tumbling down,
Leave scars about her ancient town,
The hasty mock her homely gown;
The wise man waits and praises.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Related quotes
Country Roads ~ White Horse Road
By White Horse Tavern, White Horse Road
In olden days wound down;
And many a waggon bore its load
And many a bullock felt the goad
From town to country town.
Thro' Ringwood on, by hill and vale,
Their patient way they went.
Until they came to Lilydale,
The olden town of Lilydale.
And teamsters paused at Lilydale,
A place of calm content.
But days of bitumen and tar
Have changed the ancient mode;
And now the speeding motor car,
Where traffic-cops and bowsers are,
Go down the White Horse Road,
Upon a smooth, broad way they sail,
Till, sudden, up and down,
The bumps begin at Lilydale,
The rocky road to Lilydale,
The holey road to Lilydale,
A very peaceful town.
Beyond the town, the bumps are past,
And vexed springs settle down;
But many an angry look is cast
And many a curse speeds backwards fast
Toward that backward town.
On to the foothills leads the trail
By smooth and pleasant ways,
But, oh, that stretch thro' Lilydale!
The sleepy town of Lilydale,
Where folk still think, in Lilydale,
In terms of bullock drays.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Old White Horse
In olden days the Old White Horse
Stood brave against the sky;
And ne'er a teamster shaped his course
To pass the good inn by.
Far shone its lights o' winter nights
To beckon weary men;
By the long road where calm life flowed
It loomed a landmark then.
And many a good right yarn was spun
Mid pewter-pots agleam;
And mnay a friendship here begun
Grew riper as the team
Drew down the road its precious load
Of merchandise or mail,
And faced the ills of long, steep hills
To far-off Lilydale.
The tap-room rang to many a song,
While patient teams stood there;
And talk and laughter loud and long
Held nothing of despair;
For spoke they then, those bearded men,
Of fortunes shining near
Spoke with a grand faith in their land,
A faith that laughed at fear.
Gone are the days and gone the ways
Of easy, calm content;
Yet few supposed an epoch closed
The day the old inn went.
Now, past brick homes trim and cold,
The swift cars, speeding by,
Shall see no beacon as of old,
Shall see no brave White Horse stand bold
Against a hopeful sky.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Colac
A lady plump and pleasing
And generous and free,
Her life is spent in sleek content
Beside her inland sea;
And, round its pleasant waters,
Her pastures, rich and green,
Their treasures yield from many a field
To make her way serene.
A placid, laughing lady,
And prone to placid ways;
But yet, withal, she heeds the call
0f labor all her days
Of kind, congenial labor,
That holds nor fret nor stress
A farmer's wife whose busy life
Brings full, free happiness.
Men say the ocean covered
These fields in some dim age;
And seas, long fled, vast riches spread
To be the heritage
Of this plump Aphrodite,
Now risen from the wave
To thrive apace and wax in grace
On all the wealth they gave.
A happy, hearty lady,
She turns the gift to good,
And wins in toil from this rich soil
A fine fat livelihood.
Now, where seas long since thundered,
Her cars ply up and down
To evidence sound thrift and sense
In Colac's smiling town.
Her land of lakes and pastures
Could never harbor here,
In this lush place, a dour, hard race
Wed to an outlook drear.
And so she smiles and prospers,
A happy, hearty wife,
Whose ample charms, whose thriving farms
Reveal her zest in life.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Yarra Glen
Where the Yarra dreams along,
Now in shadow, now in sun,
Murmuring a drowsy song,
Here she rests, the placid one.
Here she rests and takes her ease,
Peaceful home of cattlemen;
Haste and hustle, things like these,
Touch her lightly - Yarra Glen.
Easy flow with little care
Flows her rich river-flats
'Mid the lush green grasses where
Roam the milkers and the fats;
Where the sun-tanned herdsmen ride
Leisurely about green fields
Sloping to the river-side,
Rich with Nature's kindly yields.
Well content to drift and dream,
Life's high fever stirs her not,
Land of cows and corn and cream
By the hastening world forgot.
Something here of olden days
Lingers still, to wake anew
Memories of placid ways
That her staid forefathers knew.
In this calm backwater set,
Here she drowses well in call
Of the city's fume and fret,
Yet oblivious to it all.
Wisely she forgoes the gift
That fast living brings to men,
Well content to dream and drift
Happy rustic, Yarra Glen.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Warrnambool
A civic lady, peerly proud
Of excellences that here crowd
About her trim, well-ordered streets:
The visitor she warmly greets
E'er with a bland and kindly smile,
Full conscious of her grace the while
A grace that comes of duty done
Thro' long years in her grateful sun.
Fit cause for pride lies in her past:
Her solid buildings, reared to last,
And all her old-world atmosphere
Hinting at Holland quaintly here,
With windmills turning in the breeze
Wafted from her historic seas
That knew the sails of venturers
Long ere this pleasant land was hers.
The stone man's footprints, graved in stone,
About her ancient rocks are known;
Here, too, the Spaniard, 'neath her wave,
Found with his stately ship a grave.
And thus, thro' hist'ry, can she show
How men may wax and men may grow
By wisely planned development
To an estate of proud content.
So, 'mid her rich lands of the south
Cast from a burning mountain's mouth
She grows her fruits and lives her life
Remote from hectic city strife.
And who shall come to her wide sea,
Seeking her hospitality,
In this contented dame shall find
A gracious lady, calm and kind.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Klondike
Never mind the day we left, or the day the women clung to us;
All we need now is the last way they looked at us.
Never mind the twelve men there amid the cheering—
Twelve men or one man, ’t will soon be all the same;
For this is what we know: we are five men together,
Five left o’ twelve men to find the golden river.
Far we came to find it out, but the place was here for all of us;
Far, far we came, and here we have the last of us.
We that were the front men, we that would be early,
We that had the faith, and the triumph in our eyes:
We that had the wrong road, twelve men together,—
Singing when the devil sang to find the golden river.
Say the gleam was not for us, but never say we doubted it;
Say the wrong road was right before we followed it.
We that were the front men, fit for all forage,—
Say that while we dwindle we are front men still;
For this is what we know tonight: we’re starving here together—
Starving on the wrong road to find the golden river.
Wrong, we say, but wait a little: hear him in the corner there;
He knows more than we, and he’ll tell us if we listen there—
He that fought the snow-sleep less than all the others
Stays awhile yet, and he knows where he stays:
Foot and hand a frozen clout, brain a freezing feather,
Still he’s here to talk with us and to the golden river.
“Flow,” he says, “and flow along, but you cannot flow away from us;
All the world’s ice will never keep you far from us;
Every man that heeds your call takes the way that leads him—
The one way that’s his way, and lives his own life:
Starve or laugh, the game goes on, and on goes the river;
Gold or no, they go their way—twelve men together.
“Twelve,” he says, “who sold their shame for a lure you call too fair for them—
You that laugh and flow to the same word that urges them:
Twelve who left the old town shining in the sunset,
Left the weary street and the small safe days:
Twelve who knew but one way out, wide the way or narrow:
Twelve who took the frozen chance and laid their lives on yellow.
“Flow by night and flow by day, nor ever once be seen by them;
Flow, freeze, and flow, till time shall hide the bones of them;
Laugh and wash their names away, leave them all forgotten,
Leave the old town to crumble where it sleeps;
Leave it there as they have left it, shining in the valley,—
Leave the town to crumble down and let the women marry.
“Twelve of us or five,” he says, “we know the night is on us now:
Five while we last, and we may as well be thinking now:
Thinking each his own thought, knowing, when the light comes,
Five left or none left, the game will not be lost.
Crouch or sleep, we go the way, the last way together:
Five or none, the game goes on, and on goes the river.
“For after all that we have done and all that we have failed to do,
Life will be life and a world will have its work to do:
Every man who follows us will heed in his own fashion
The calling and the warning and the friends who do not know:
Each will hold an icy knife to punish his heart’s lover,
And each will go the frozen way to find the golden river.”
There you hear him, all he says, and the last we’ll ever get from him.
Now he wants to sleep, and that will be the best for him.
Let him have his own way—no, you needn’t shake him—
Your own turn will come, so let the man sleep.
For this is what we know: we are stalled here together—
Hands and feet and hearts of us, to find the golden river.
And there’s a quicker way than sleep? … Never mind the looks of him:
All he needs now is a finger on the eyes of him.
You there on the left hand, reach a little over—
Shut the stars away, or he’ll see them all night:
He’ll see them all night and he’ll see them all tomorrow,
Crawling down the frozen sky, cold and hard and yellow.
Won’t you move an inch or two—to keep the stars away from him?
—No, he won’t move, and there’s no need of asking him.
Never mind the twelve men, never mind the women;
Three while we last, we’ll let them all go;
And we’ll hold our thoughts north while we starve here together,
Looking each his own way to find the golden river.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Bright
Where Feathertop frowns thro' the winter scud,
Where Buffalo broods on high,
Dwells she, a lass of royal blood,
And a sparkle lights her eye
The clear, clean glint of the sun on snow,
Where the small streams, singing down,
Into the golden Ovens flow,
To decorate her town.
Wild was she on an olden day
And a wilful lass, forsooth,
When the rough, tough diggers came her way
Ere she emerged from youth.
From her river flats they dredged the gold
And laid sad waste to these,
While they drove in thousands from their fold
The thrifty, scared Chinese.
Waxing in beauty, she has grown
To a maid of wide renown;
For the wild, swift days have long since flown.
Now, by her tree-girt town,
Where her plaited river murmuring flows
Thro' sylvan scenes and rare,
A maiden clad in beauty goes
To her hop-fields gleaming there.
Yet men still scheme to dredge these fields,
And filch their loveliness,
All for the sake of bigger yields
In gold, that count far less
Than the rare, rich harvests won today
In calm security.
Leaving but ruin and decay
To sad posterity.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Laura Days
Dreaming to-day in a forest green
Where the great gums rake the sky,
My thoughts turn back to another scene
And to old days, long gone by;
To a land of youth, and a youth's employ,
And - to filch another's phrase -
To the men who were boys, when I was a boy,
In the long gone Laura days.
To a little town that nestles down
By the hills of Beetaloo,
Where a youth dreamed dreams of fair renown,
And a man's ambition grew,
'Twas here his earliest songs were sung
And he won his earliest praise
From men who were young when he was young
In the long gone Laura days.
Spicer, Stockdale, Ballantyne,
Marrie, Mitchell and Braund;
How many a right good pal of mine
Has gone from that sunlit land.
How many a man, how many a lad,
Whose head now slowly greys,
To a song grew glad as I grew glad
In those long gone Laura days.
Susman, Sibly and Dr Cook,
Blume and Barrington,
Oh! the lives of some are a long-closed book,
But many a tale runs on.
Hollis and Harvey, Chandler, Green
Are gone their various ways,
But I see them all in the olden scene
Of the long gone Laura days.
I see them still, I see the town
Under those scrub-clad hills,
The shops where the quiet street runs down,
Wilson, Rowland, Bills.
Taylor, Weste, Felstead too,
Cole of the kindly ways,
And many other friends I knew
In the long gone Laura days.
And the names of some come slow to mind,
But the faces greet me clear,
And I hold them all as men most kind,
As I hold the old town dear;
And so in memory to the end
That old time picture stays,
For I see each face as a faithful friend
Of the far off Laura days.
To the ladies all I lift a glass,
And toast with a right good will,
Every matron, every lass, who
Shine in memory still,
Fair would I hymn them all in rhyme
With soaring song of praise,
Friends of mine from a golden time
In the long gone Laura days.
When the evening sun slants through the gums,
By my forest-rimmed abode,
Once more the old clear picture comes,
And my mind drifts down the road;
Back to the town by Beetaloo,
Where the Rocky River strays;
Back to the old kind friends I knew
In the dear dead Laura days.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bendigo
A golden maid whose golden voice
Calls to the northern lands,
Of riches she has had her choice.
Twin treasures to make men rejoice
Came easy to her hands:
The golden harvest of broad fields,
Or that dark gift of sudden yields
Won from her golden sands.
But men have scorned her worthier pride
In rich and fruitful soil;
And, spreading desolation wide,
Ranged all her verdant countryside
To ravage and despoil.
And now grey wastes of tortured earth
Await the glory of rebirth
Thro' nature's patient toil.
She has the wish, she has the will
To gather beauty round.
Though gold's fierce lure stays with her still,
She lives to plan and strive until
Springs from this barren ground
Earth's only treasure, scorned of yore,
And smiling verdure clothes once more
Full many a bare, bleak mound.
She guards the gateway of the north
The broad lands of the sun.
Hospitably her hand goes forth,
Eager to vindicate the worth
Of happier tasks begun,
And in gay gardens to express
A newer urge to loveliness
And kinder virtues won.
A virile lass, in no wise strange,
Of true Australian breed:
Where drab days into sunlight charge
Across the Great Dividing Range
She scatters now the seed
That shall bring yields a thousandfold
When gardens count for more than gold
And peace outvalues greed.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Sonnet: The Modern Man
The modern man behaves in funny ways,
with craze for things that set his passions live;
He goes for food-fads, fashions, trendy days;
In swimming pools in hotels high, he'll dive.
Things mystic, mod have caught his heart and mind;
He acts per only his whims and fancies;
To virtual, unreal things, he will bind;
And quickly wants a life of lucre, ease.
Life's ventures are based on money's pivot;
He wastes his precious time and gifts of God;
He spends, invests and saves, yet lands in debt;
And though he's not, he thinks he is the Lord.
He can pull off achievements, aplenty;
His body, mind look aged at twenty.
poem by John Celes
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Days Of 49
Im old tom moore from the bummers shore in that good old golden days
They call me a bummer and a ginsot too, but what cares I for praise ?
I wander around from town to town just like a roving sign
And all the people say, there goes tom moore, in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
My comrades they all loved me well, a jolly saucy crew
A few hard cases I will recall though they all were brave and true
Whatever the pitch they never would flinch, they never would fret or whine
Like good old bricks they stood the kicks in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
There was new york jake, the butcher boy, he was always getting tight
And every time that hed get full he was spoiling for a fight
But jake rampaged against a knife in the hands of old bob stein
And over jake they held a wake in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
There was poker bill, one of the boys who was always in a game
Whether he lost or whether he won, to him it was always the same
He would ante up and draw his cards and he would you go a hatful blind
In the game with death bill lost his breath, in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
There was ragshag bill from buffalo, I never will forget
He would roar all day and hed roar all night and I guess hes roaring yet
One day he fell in a prospect hole, in a roaring bad design
And in that hole he roared out his soul, in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
Of the comrades all that Ive had, theres none thats left to boast
And Im left alone in my misery like some poor wandering ghost
And I pass by from town to town, they call me a rambling sign
There goes tom moore, a bummer shore in the days of 49
In the days of old, in the days of gold
How ofttimes I repine for the days of old
When we dug up the gold, in the days of 49.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gold
We rovers bold,
To the land of Gold,
Over the bowling billows are gliding:
Eager to toil,
For the golden spoil,
And every hardship biding.
See! See!
Before our prows' resistless dashes
The gold-fish fly in golden flashes!
'Neath a sun of gold,
We rovers bold,
On the golden land are gaining;
And every night,
We steer aright,
By golden stars unwaning!
All fires burn a golden glare:
No locks so bright as golden hair!
All orange groves have golden gushings;
All mornings dawn with golden flushings!
In a shower of gold, say fables old,
A maiden was won by the god of gold!
In golden goblets wine is beaming:
On golden couches kings are dreaming!
The Golden Rule dries many tears!
The Golden Number rules the spheres!
Gold, gold it is, that sways the nations:
Gold! gold! the center of all rotations!
On golden axles worlds are turning:
With phosphorescence seas are burning!
All fire-flies flame with golden gleamings!
Gold-hunters' hearts with golden dreamings!
With golden arrows kings are slain:
With gold we'll buy a freeman's name!
In toilsome trades, for scanty earnings,
At home we've slaved, with stifled yearnings:
No light! no hope! Oh, heavy woe!
When nights fled fast, and days dragged slow.
But joyful now, with eager eye,
Fast to the Promised Land we fly:
Where in deep mines,
The treasure shines;
Or down in beds of golden streams,
The gold-flakes glance in golden gleams!
How we long to sift,
That yellow drift!
Rivers! Rivers! cease your goings!
Sand-bars! rise, and stay the tide!
'Till we've gained the golden flowing;
And in the golden haven ride!
poem by Herman Melville
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The Golden Rose
A POOR lost princess, weary and worn,
Came over the down by the wind-washed moor,
And the king looked out on her grace forlorn,
And he took her in at his palace door.
He made her queen, he gave her a crown,
Bidding her rest and be glad and gay
In his golden town, with a golden gown,
And a new gold lily every day.
But the crown is heavy, the gold gown gray,
And the queen's pale breast is like autumn snows;
For he brings a gold lily every day,
But no king gathers the golden rose.
One came at last to the palace keep
By worlds of water and leagues of land,
Gray were his garments, his eyes were deep,
And he held the golden rose in his hand.
She left gold gown, gold town, gold crown,
And followed him straight to a world apart,
And he left her asleep on the wind-washed down,
With the golden rose on her quiet heart.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Lilydale
Three hills lead on to Lilydale,
Where runs the White Horse Road.
Three slopes dip down into the vale
The placid vale of Lilydale,
That somnolent abode
Of dreams that compass olden days,
Of tranquil life and easy ways,
Where transient beauty tints her trees
With golden Autumn's harmonies.
For Lilydale is now a dame
Unhurried and content.
Traditions that attend her name
Serve her from all she needs of fame,
Who scorns the brandishment
Of modern haste and modern show.
And, as the speeding motors go
Down thro' her street, to hasten by,
She marks them with a sleepy sigh.
Amid her grazing kine she goes
The 'milkers', 'stores' and 'fats.'
A cow she venerates, and knows
How well to hoard the wealth that flows
From her rich river flats
One passion lures her from her course;
Her great love for a likely horse.
Tempting to revels now and then
With her twin dreamer, Yarra Glen.
Three hills lead on to Lilydale,
Three slopes dip down below.
And every hill, and every vale
Tell once more the olden tale
Of days when life moved slow;
Save when the dashing fours-in-hand
Came clattering to this new-found land,
And wakened this bucolic spot
To life's high fever - long forgot.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Greater Love
ONCE upon a time,
Little Golden-Head,
Steeples used to chime,
And their chiming said:
'Peace is in the land —
Joy on every hand.'
Glowing youths and men
Rose and went their ways,
Some to hill and glen,
Some to shining bays.
And they left behind
Ills of heart and mind.
Oh, but it was sweet
Underneath the trees,
Bare of throat and feet,
Bathed in golden ease,
Two and two to lie
While the hours went by!
Sweet indeed it was
Thus to lie and laze,
Couched upon the grass
Through the shining days —
Sweet to breathe the air,
Free of toil and care!
On the beaches then,
Sporting with the sea,
Gathered brown-limbed men
Graced like statuary
Chiselled by some bold
Master hand of old.
All were guests of Joy;
All his sportive clan —
Here a shouting boy,
There a jesting man,
While the breakers hymned,
Braving them, stout-limbed.
Listen, Golden-Head!
Came a Wondrous One
Unto each, and said:
'Look on me, my son!
Am I not above
All things else you love?'
Then that love began
Which is more than life —
More than love of man,
Love of maid or wife;
Love of queen or king,
Aught or anything.
Little Golden-Head,
Is it well to tell
How they wrought and bled,
How they fought and fell
In their glowing prime,
Once upon a time?
Nay, but it is writ
That such things must be;
Oh the shame of it,
Oh the tragedy!
Oh the days of rue,
Oh the glory, too!
Little Golden-Head,
By the skies above,
By our honoured dead,
You shall know that love —
Know, and hold the time
When 'twas born sublime!
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Is Anybody Out There ?
(gill/johnson/nash/otoole)
If I could change the things Ive done
Would I be the only one
To with again if only I could take your pain away
And think of better, better things to say
The highest price Id gladly pay
For you to live, just golden days, golden days, golden days
So celebrate the moment now, have all that you desire
Well keep each other warm, together well weather the storm
The children are dying and nobodys crying
Theres got to be something out there, someone who cares
Got to be something out there *
Give me real life, the worry and the strife
Ill throw it out of the window, to the dogs below
So come with me Ill guide you through wardrobes of fantasy
And treasure chests of what could be
A world without anxiety
A legacy of golden days, golden days, golden days
Leave it all behind the blind leading the blind
Have all that you desire
Gotta be, gotta be someone out there
Lets break the rules scattering the jewels
Of joy amongst ourselves
The lonely, lonely of the shelves
Feel good about yourself, Ill drink to your health
Have all that you desire
(repeat)*
Im looking for something, and I dont know what it is
song performed by by Frankie Goes To Hollywood
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Walls
Some days are diamonds
Some days are rocks
Some doors are open
Some roads are blocked
Sundowns are golden
Then fade away
But if i never do nothing
I'll get you back some day
Cause you got a heart so big
It could crush this town
And i can't hold out forever
Even walls fall down
And all around your island
There's a barricade
It keeps out the danger
It holds in the pain
Sometimes you're happy
Sometimes you cry
Half of me is ocean
Half of me is sky
But you got a heart so big
It could crush this town
And i can't hold out forever
Even walls fall down
And some things are over
Some things go on
And part of me you carry
Part of me is gone
But you got a heart so big
It could crush this town
And i can't hold out forever
Even walls fall down
Baby you got a heart so big
It could crush this town
And i can't hold out forever
Even walls fall down
They fall down
song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mid-Winter Monody
There's a bleak, black world without,
And the rain falls fast;
And the wind, with a whine and a shout,
Blows buffeting past
To wail thro' the tortured trees,
With cold wet breath,
Like a choir of dank banshees
Foretelling death.
I sit by the fire and I now,
And I juggle with rhymes.
Oh, the ways of our world grow odd,
And the trend of our times.
My tired eyes roam the news,
These columns tell
Of earth and its warring views,
And I sigh, 'Well, well!'
Idly I turn the page;
And I ponder then
Of the hopes and the dreams and the rage
And the folly of men.
What profits this modern show?
And where do we gain?
But - twenty short years ago,
Ah, then we were sane!
Speed-drunk and pleasure-crazed
We ravage and waste,
Dull, sentient things, half-dazed
By our own mad haste;
Selling content for gold,
Our peace for a fad.
Alas, for the wisdom of old!
We are mad! stark mad!
How, when, came earth's golden age
If ever it shone?
Wise years of the saint and the sage,
These are gone - long gone,
Never to blossom again
'Mid a peace well-won,
In a world of the simply sane.
We are doomed! We are done!
When a score more years drift on,
Then another shall dwell,
Here in my place, when I've gone.
And he'll sigh, 'Well, well!
What profits this modern show?
And where do we gain?
But - twenty short years ago,
Ah, then we were sane!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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1. I Wish I Was
I wish I was
In a town far, far away
Only for nights
To be with her
I would travel
Such great distance
Only for nights
To be with her
But the distance is great
And my legs so wary
I need help now
To show me the way
And that journey
Shall be so treacherous
But my days
Will feel so free
And my friends
Will be the fields
The long hedgerows
That point me the way
Oh to be there
By the sweet ocean
Tis my goal
To sit there and play
And in that town
I've heard it said
There such glories await
For he that goes
But I'll travel no more now
Til I get another drink
Something with ice
As black as ink
I'll be drunk today
And seldom sober
A handsome traveller
From town to town
And when I'm sick
And my days numbered
Come all you young men
Take my crown
poem by Casual Diamond
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Good Conversation
Everybody's so mixed up about love these days
And everybody's trying to work it out in different ways
I don't really need to know your aspirations
What I need from you babe
Is good conversation
To put my mind at ease
An old friend called the other day
And wasn't quite sure what to say
Didn't seem to know me anymore
And I said
Don't treat me like I'm someone new
I'm still the same one you used to talk to
But all I need from you friend
Is good conversation
Is good conversation
To put my mind at ease
Though It seems as if the world has come between us
And our lives don't look the same
Though in the past you have shared all my happiness
Will you be there to share the pain
Everyday I'm surrounded by
A million voices from the sky
And they all have the same thing to say
Now what I need is something new
Is it something you can do
To share in that kind
Of good conversation
Is good conversation
That puts my mind at ease
Puts my mind at ease
yeah baby
(all I need is)
(all I)
Woah yeah
(all I)
(all I)
(all I need is)
Is it my iniagination
(all I)
And can you see my frustration
(all I)
I don't need admiration
(all I)
But I'm trying to be patient
What I'm looking for
(all I)
Is good conversation
(all I)
(all I need is)
Is it imy imagination
(all I)
Could it be my destination
(all I)
And what I'm looking for
(all I)
is good conversation
(all I need is)
And what i'm asking for
(all I)
is good conversation
(all I)
To put my mind at ease
song performed by by Boyzone from Where We Belong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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