Frank Wilmot(6 April 1881 - 22 February 1942 / Collingwood, Melbourne)
- by Frank Wilmot36
THERE grows a white, white flower By the wild Alps of romance; And who would reach its dainty leaves Takes life and death in chance.
There is a dark, dark cavern Where a woman goes alone, Takes hope and peril in her hand And fights Death on his throne.
To our heart's breathless calling She comes from the cavern wild, Holding in her exhausted arms A small, white, blossoming child.
- by Frank Wilmot28
THEY'VE builded wooden timber tracks, And a trolly with screaming brakes Noses into the secret bush, Into the birdless brooding bush, And the tall old gums it takes. And down in the sunny valley, The snorting saw screams slow; O bush that nursed my people, O bush that cursed my people, That flayed and made my people, I weep to watch you go
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