I make not my division of the hours By dials, clocks, or waking birds’ acclaim, Nor measure seasons by the reigning flowers, The spring’s green glori… - Patrick Moloney

O sweet Queen-city of the golden South, Piercing the evening with thy starlit spires,
Thou wert a witness when I kissed the mouth Of her whose eyes outblazed the skiey fires.
I saw the parallels of thy long streets With lamps like angels shining all a-row,
While overhead the empyrean seats Of gods were steeped in paradisic glow.
The Pleiades with rarer fires were tipt, Hesper sat throned upon his jewelled chair,
The belted giant’s triple stars were dipt In all the splendour of Olympian air.
On high to bless, the Southern Cross did shine,
Like that which blazed o’er conquering Constantine.

The rude rebuffs of bay-besieging winds But make the anchored ships towards them turn,
So thy unkindness unto me but finds My love tow’rds thee with keener ardour burn;
As myrrh incised bleeds odoriferous gum, I am become a poet through my wrong,
For through the sad-mouthed heart-wounds in me come These earthly echoes of celestial song.
My thoughts as birds make flutter in my heart, Poor muffled choristers! whose sad refrain
Gives sorrow sleep, and bids that woe depart Whose heavy burden weighs upon my strain.
Imprisoned larks pipe sweeter than when free,
And I, enslaved, have learnt to sing for thee.

Thy throne is ringed by amorous cavaliers, And all the air is heavy with the sound
Of tiptoe compliment, whilst anxious fears Strike dumb the lesser satellites around.
One clasps thy hand, another squires thy chair, Some bask in light shed from the eyes of thee,
Some taste the perfume shaken from thy hair, Some watch afar their worshipped deity.
All have their orbits, and due distance keep, As round the sun concentric planets move;
Smiles light yon lord, whilst I, at distance, weep In the sad twilight of uncertain love.
’Thwart thee, my sun, how many a mincer slips,
Whose constant transits make for me eclipse.