I love poetry, especially classic poems and over the next couple of weeks I'm planning to feature a classic poem once a week. I hope you enjoy my choice of poems as much as I do.
In my opinion they are vivid and sometimes haunting. The one I'm featuring today by Australian, Adam Lindsay Gordon, stirred some personal emotions when I first read it and like any good piece of writing the author took me into his world. I've added some of my photographs, in order to share some of my world.
An Exiles Farewell
The ocean heaves around
us still
With long and measured swell
The autumn gales our canvas fill
Our ship rides smooth and well
The broad Atlantic's bed of foam
Still breaks against our prow
I shed no tears at quitting home
Nor will I shed them now
Against the bulwarks on the poop
I lean, and watch the sun
Behind the red horizon stoop
His race is nearly run
Those waves will never quench his light
O'er which they seem to close
To-morrow he will rise as bright
As he this morning rose
How brightly gleams the orb of day
Across the trackless sea
How lightly dance the waves that play
Like dolphins in our lee
The restless waters seem to say
In smothered tones to me
How many thousand miles away
My native land must be
Speak, Ocean. Is my home the same?
Now all is new to me
The tropic sky's resplendent flame
The vast expanse of sea
Does all around her, yet unchanged
The well-known aspect wear
Oh! Can the leagues that I have ranged
Have made no difference there?
How vivid Recollection's hand
Recalls the scene once more
I see the same tall poplars stand
Beside the garden door
I see the bird-cage hanging still
And where my sister set
The flowers in the window-sill
Can they be living yet?
Let woman's nature cherish grief
I rarely heave a sigh
Before emotion takes relief
In listless apathy
While from my pipe the vapours curl
Towards the evening sky
And 'neath my feet the billows whirl
In dull monotony
With long and measured swell
The autumn gales our canvas fill
Our ship rides smooth and well
The broad Atlantic's bed of foam
Still breaks against our prow
I shed no tears at quitting home
Nor will I shed them now
Against the bulwarks on the poop
I lean, and watch the sun
Behind the red horizon stoop
His race is nearly run
Those waves will never quench his light
O'er which they seem to close
To-morrow he will rise as bright
As he this morning rose
How brightly gleams the orb of day
Across the trackless sea
How lightly dance the waves that play
Like dolphins in our lee
The restless waters seem to say
In smothered tones to me
How many thousand miles away
My native land must be
Speak, Ocean. Is my home the same?
Now all is new to me
The tropic sky's resplendent flame
The vast expanse of sea
Does all around her, yet unchanged
The well-known aspect wear
Oh! Can the leagues that I have ranged
Have made no difference there?
How vivid Recollection's hand
Recalls the scene once more
I see the same tall poplars stand
Beside the garden door
I see the bird-cage hanging still
And where my sister set
The flowers in the window-sill
Can they be living yet?
Let woman's nature cherish grief
I rarely heave a sigh
Before emotion takes relief
In listless apathy
While from my pipe the vapours curl
Towards the evening sky
And 'neath my feet the billows whirl
In dull monotony
The sky still wears the crimson
streak
Of Sol's departing ray
Some briny drops are on my
cheek
'Tis but the salt sea spray
Then let our barque the
ocean roam
Our keel the billows plough
I shed no tears at
quitting home
Nor will I shed them now
Adam Lindsay Gordon (19 October 1833 – 24 June 1870)
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