There's a lonely stretch of hillocks: There's a beach asleep and drear: There's a battered broken fort beside the sea. There are sunken trampled graves: And a little rotting pier: And winding paths that wind unceasingly. There's a torn and silent valley: There's a tiny rivulet With some blood upon the stones beside its mouth. There are lines of buried bones: There's an unpaid waiting debt : There's a sound of gentle sobbing in the South.
- by Leon Gellert79
The island sleeps,-but it has no delight For em, to whom that sleep has been unkind. My thoughts are long of what seems long ago, And long, too, are my dreams. I do not know These trailing glories of the star-strewn night Or the slow sough of the wind.
I hear the rattle of the moving car; The children crying in the lighted street, I walk along the same old asphalt way. I see the church,-I hear the organ play. I see the hills I wandered on afar, And spots of rain at my feet.
I see the dust-strewn hedge,-the latched gate; The gravelled path with roses either side; The cedar tree,-my mother's window pane. I see the place where I sat long and late By the trellis deep and wide.
The red Virginia crumbles at the wall. The bed is bare where winter's snow-drops grew. I feel my dog come licking at my hand. I pause awhile beside the door, I stand. And hear the well-known footsteps softly fall And the voices that I knew.
I slowly creep and peep beneath the blind. -My father reads his book within his chair. Some children play their game of dominoes. My mother sits beside the fire and sews; Her head is bowed. I know her eyes are kind By the grey lines in her hair.
I tap the pane to see those tears unshed. I see all turn, and watch them sadly stirred By the sound, and peer to see my face without. They see, and smile, I hear no welcome shout. They sit and gaze as they that see the dead, But no one says a word.
The island sleeps. May sleep come soon to me, And lull these dreams within my shaken mind; -These dreams that tell me I have seen the last of those I left so,-loved so in the past. * * * I hear the murmur of the moving sea, And the murmur of the wind.
Poems by Leon Gellert, Leon Gellert's poems collection. Leon Gellert is a classical and famous poet (1892 - 1977 / Australia). Share all poems of Leon Gellert.