It’s gettin’ bits o’ posies, ’N’ feelin’ mighty good; A-thrillin’ ’cause she loves you, An’ wond’rin’ why she should; [...] As if there’s nothin’ mat… - Mary Gilmore

I have no thunder in my words, Thunder is much too high;
But I can see as far as birds, And feel the wind go by.And I can follow through the grass The darling-breasted quail;
For, though things great in splendour mass, I choose the lesser grail.

Emptied of us the land, Ghostly our going,
Fallen, like spears the hand Dropped in the throwing.We are the lost who went, Like the cranes, crying;
Hunted, lonely, and spent, Broken and dying.

I shall go as my father went,
A thousand plans in his mind,
With something still held unspent
When death lets fall the blind.I shall go as my mother went,
The ink still wet on the line:
I shall pay no rust as rent
For the house that is mine.