The Australian

ONCE more this Autumn-earth is ripe,
 Parturient of another type.
 
While with the Past old nations merge
His foot is on the Future’s verge.
 
They watch him, as they huddle, pent,
Striding a spacious continent,
 
Above the level desert’s marge
Looming in his aloofness large.
 
No flower with fragile sweetness graced—
A lank weed wrestling with the waste;
 
Pallid of face and gaunt of limb,
The sweetness withered out of him;
 
Sombre, indomitable, wan,
The juices dried, the glad youth gone.
 
A little weary from his birth,
His laugh the spectre of a mirth,
 
Bitter beneath a bitter sky,
To Nature he has no reply.
 
Wanton, perhaps, and cruel. Yes,
Is not his sun more merciless?
 
So drab and neutral is his day,
He finds a splendour in the grey,
 
And from his life’s monotony
He draws a dreary melody.
 
When earth so poor a banquet makes
His pleasures at a gulp he takes;
 
The feast is his to the last crumb:
Drink while he can…the drought will come.
 
His heart a sudden tropic flower,
He loves and loathes within an hour.
 
Yet you who by the pools abide,
Judge not the man who swerves aside;
 
He sees beyond your hazy fears;
He roads the desert of the years;
 
Rearing his cities in the sand,
He builds where even God has banned;
 
With green a continent he crowns,
And stars a wilderness with towns;
 
With paths the distances he snares;
His gyves of steel the great plain wears.
 
A child who takes a world for toy,
To build a nation or destroy,
 
His childish features frozen stern,
His manhood’s task he has to learn—
 
From feeble tribes to federate
One white and peace-encompassed State.
 
But if there be no goal to reach?…
The track lies open, dawns beseech!
 
Enough that he lay down his load
A little farther on the road.
 
So, toward undreamt-of destinies
He slouches down the centuries.

Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)
98 Views

Arthur Henry Adams

Arthur Henry Adams was a journalist and author. more…

All Arthur Henry Adams poems | Arthur Henry Adams Books

FAVORITE (0 fans)

Translation

Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

Select another language:

  • - Select -
  • 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
  • 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
  • Español (Spanish)
  • Esperanto (Esperanto)
  • 日本語 (Japanese)
  • Português (Portuguese)
  • Deutsch (German)
  • العربية (Arabic)
  • Français (French)
  • Русский (Russian)
  • ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
  • 한국어 (Korean)
  • עברית (Hebrew)
  • Український (Ukrainian)
  • اردو (Urdu)
  • Magyar (Hungarian)
  • मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
  • Indonesia (Indonesian)
  • Italiano (Italian)
  • தமிழ் (Tamil)
  • Türkçe (Turkish)
  • తెలుగు (Telugu)
  • ภาษาไทย (Thai)
  • Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
  • Čeština (Czech)
  • Polski (Polish)
  • Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
  • Românește (Romanian)
  • Nederlands (Dutch)
  • Ελληνικά (Greek)
  • Latinum (Latin)
  • Svenska (Swedish)
  • Dansk (Danish)
  • Suomi (Finnish)
  • فارسی (Persian)
  • ייִדיש (Yiddish)
  • հայերեն (Armenian)
  • Norsk (Norwegian)
  • English (English)

Discuss this Arthur Henry Adams poem with the community:

Citation

Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:

Style:MLAChicagoAPA

"The Australian" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 30 Mar. 2020. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/3855/the-australian>.

We need you!

Help us build the largest poetry community and poems collection on the web!

Other poems by

Arthur Henry Adams

»

Our favorite collection of

Famous Poets

»

Thanks for your vote! We truly appreciate your support.