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Best Famous Droughts Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Droughts poems. This is a select list of the best famous Droughts poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Droughts poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of droughts poems.

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Written by Gwendolyn Brooks | Create an image from this poem

The Good Man

 The good man.
He is still enhancer, renouncer.
In the time of detachment, in the time of the vivid heather and affectionate evil, in the time of oral grave grave legalities of hate - all real walks our prime registered reproach and seal.
Our successful moral.
The good man.
Watches our bogus roses, our rank wreath, our love's unreliable cement, the gray jubilees of our demondom.
Coherent Counsel! Good man.
Require of us our terribly excluded blue.
Constrain, repair a ripped, revolted land.
Put hand in hand land over.
Reprove the abler droughts and manias of the day and a felicity entreat.
Love.
Complete your pledges, reinforce your aides, renew stance, testament.


Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

A Sign-Seeker

 I MARK the months in liveries dank and dry,
The day-tides many-shaped and hued;
I see the nightfall shades subtrude,
And hear the monotonous hours clang negligently by.
I view the evening bonfires of the sun On hills where morning rains have hissed; The eyeless countenance of the mist Pallidly rising when the summer droughts are done.
I have seen the lightning-blade, the leaping star, The caldrons of the sea in storm, Have felt the earthquake's lifting arm, And trodden where abysmal fires and snowcones are.
I learn to prophesy the hid eclipse, The coming of eccentric orbs; To mete the dust the sky absorbs, To weigh the sun, and fix the hour each planet dips.
I witness fellow earth-men surge and strive; Assemblies meet, and throb, and part; Death's soothing finger, sorrow's smart; --All the vast various moils that mean a world alive.
But that I fain would wot of shuns my sense-- Those sights of which old prophets tell, Those signs the general word so well, Vouchsafed to their unheed, denied my watchings tense.
In graveyard green, behind his monument To glimpse a phantom parent, friend, Wearing his smile, and "Not the end!" Outbreathing softly: that were blest enlightenment; Or, if a dead Love's lips, whom dreams reveal When midnight imps of King Decay Delve sly to solve me back to clay, Should leave some print to prove her spirit-kisses real; Or, when Earth's Frail lie bleeding of her Strong, If some Recorder, as in Writ, Near to the weary scene should flit And drop one plume as pledge that Heaven inscrolls the wrong.
--There are who, rapt to heights of tranc?d trust, These tokens claim to feel and see, Read radiant hints of times to be-- Of heart to heart returning after dust to dust.
Such scope is granted not my powers indign.
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I have lain in dead men's beds, have walked The tombs of those with whom I'd talked, Called many a gone and goodly one to shape a sign, And panted for response.
But none replies; No warnings loom, nor whisperings To open out my limitings, And Nescience mutely muses: When a man falls he lies.
Written by Dorothea Mackeller | Create an image from this poem

My Country

 My Country 

The love of field and coppice 
Of green and shaded lanes, 
Of ordered woods and gardens 
Is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance, Brown streams and soft, dim skies I know, but cannot share it, My love is otherwise.
I love a sunburnt country, A land of sweeping plains, Of ragged mountain ranges, Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons, I love her jewel-sea, Her beauty and her terror The wide brown land for me! The stark white ring-barked forests, All tragic to the moon, The sapphire-misted mountains, The hot gold hush of noon, Green tangle of the brushes Where lithe lianas coil, And orchids deck the tree-tops, And ferns the warm dark soil.
Core of my heart, my country! Her pitiless blue sky, When, sick at heart, around us We see the cattle die But then the grey clouds gather, And we can bless again The drumming of an army, The steady soaking rain.
Core of my heart, my country! Land of the rainbow gold, For flood and fire and famine She pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks, Watch, after many days, The filmy veil of greenness That thickens as we gaze .
.
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An opal-hearted country, A wilful, lavish land All you who have not loved her, You will not understand though Earth holds many splendours, Wherever I may die, I know to what brown country My homing thoughts will fly.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

On Kileys Run

 The roving breezes come and go 
On Kiley's Run, 
The sleepy river murmurs low, 
And far away one dimly sees 
Beyond the stretch of forest trees -- 
Beyond the foothills dusk and dun -- 
The ranges sleeping in the sun 
On Kiley's Run.
'Tis many years since first I came To Kiley's Run, More years than I would care to name Since I, a stripling, used to ride For miles and miles at Kiley's side, The while in stirring tones he told The stories of the days of old On Kiley's Run.
I see the old bush homestead now On Kiley's Run, Just nestled down beneath the brow Of one small ridge above the sweep Of river-flat, where willows weep And jasmine flowers and roses bloom, The air was laden with perfume On Kiley's Run.
We lived the good old station life On Kiley's Run, With little thought of care or strife.
Old Kiley seldom used to roam, He liked to make the Run his home, The swagman never turned away With empty hand at close of day From Kiley's Run.
We kept a racehorse now and then On Kiley's Run, And neighb'ring stations brought their men To meetings where the sport was free, And dainty ladies came to see Their champions ride; with laugh and song The old house rang the whole night long On Kiley's Run.
The station hands were friends I wot On Kiley's Run, A reckless, merry-hearted lot -- All splendid riders, and they knew The `boss' was kindness through and through.
Old Kiley always stood their friend, And so they served him to the end On Kiley's Run.
But droughts and losses came apace To Kiley's Run, Till ruin stared him in the face; He toiled and toiled while lived the light, He dreamed of overdrafts at night: At length, because he could not pay, His bankers took the stock away From Kiley's Run.
Old Kiley stood and saw them go From Kiley's Run.
The well-bred cattle marching slow; His stockmen, mates for many a day, They wrung his hand and went away.
Too old to make another start, Old Kiley died -- of broken heart, On Kiley's Run.
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The owner lives in England now Of Kiley's Run.
He knows a racehorse from a cow; But that is all he knows of stock: His chiefest care is how to dock Expenses, and he sends from town To cut the shearers' wages down On Kiley's Run.
There are no neighbours anywhere Near Kiley's Run.
The hospitable homes are bare, The gardens gone; for no pretence Must hinder cutting down expense: The homestead that we held so dear Contains a half-paid overseer On Kiley's Run.
All life and sport and hope have died On Kiley's Run.
No longer there the stockmen ride; For sour-faced boundary riders creep On mongrel horses after sheep, Through ranges where, at racing speed, Old Kiley used to `wheel the lead' On Kiley's Run.
There runs a lane for thirty miles Through Kiley's Run.
On either side the herbage smiles, But wretched trav'lling sheep must pass Without a drink or blade of grass Thro' that long lane of death and shame: The weary drovers curse the name Of Kiley's Run.
The name itself is changed of late Of Kiley's Run.
They call it `Chandos Park Estate'.
The lonely swagman through the dark Must hump his swag past Chandos Park.
The name is English, don't you see, The old name sweeter sounds to me Of `Kiley's Run'.
I cannot guess what fate will bring To Kiley's Run -- For chances come and changes ring -- I scarcely think 'twill always be Locked up to suit an absentee; And if he lets it out in farms His tenants soon will carry arms On Kiley's Run.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Saltbush Bills Gamecock

 'Twas Saltbush Bill, with his travelling sheep, was making his way to town; 
He crossed them over the Hard Times Run, and he came to the Take 'Em Down; 
He counted through at the boundary gate, and camped at the drafting yard: 
For Stingy Smith, of the Hard Times Run, had hunted him rather hard.
He bore no malice to Stingy Smith -- 'twas simply the hand of Fate That caused his waggon to swerve aside and shatter old Stingy's gate; And being only the hand of Fate, it follows, without a doubt, It wasn't the fault of Saltbush Bill that Stingy's sheep got out.
So Saltbush Bill, with an easy heart, prepared for what might befall, Commenced his stages on Take 'Em Down, the station of Roostr Hall.
'Tis strange how often the men out back will take to some curious craft, Some ruling passion to keep their thoughts away from the overdraft: And Rooster Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was widely known to fame As breeder of champion fighting cocks -- his forte was the British Game.
The passing stranger within his gates that camped with old Rooster Hall Was forced to talk about fowls all noght, or else not talk at all.
Though droughts should come, and though sheep should die, his fowls were his sole delight; He left his shed in the flood of work to watch two game-cocks fight.
He held in scorn the Australian Game, that long-legged child of sin; In a desperate fight, with the steel-tipped spurs, the British Game must win! The Australian bird was a mongrel bird, with a touch of the jungle cock; The want of breeding must find him out, when facing the English stock; For British breeding, and British pluck, must triumph it over all -- And that was the root of the simple creed that governed old Rooster Hall.
'Twas Saltbush Bill to the station rode ahead of his travelling sheep, And sent a message to Rooster Hall that wakened him out of his sleep -- A crafty message that fetched him out, and hurried him as he came -- "A drover has an Australian bird to match with your British Game.
" 'Twas done, and done in half a trice; a five-pound note a side; Old Rooster Hall, with his champion bird, and the drover's bird untried.
"Steel spurs, of course?" said old Rooster Hall; "you'll need 'em, without a doubt!" "You stick the spurs on your bird!" said Bill, "but mine fights best without.
" "Fights best without?" said old Rooster Hall; "he can't fight best unspurred! You must be crazy!" But Saltbush Bill said, "Wait till you see my bird!" So Rooster Hall to his fowl-yard went, and quickly back he came, Bearing a clipt and a shaven cock, the pride of his English Game; With an eye as fierce as an eaglehawk, and a crow like a trumbet call, He strutted about on the garden walk, and cackled at Rooster Hall.
Then Rooster Hall sent off a boy with a word to his cronies two, McCrae (the boss of the Black Police) and Father Donahoo.
Full many a cockfight old McCrae had held in his empty Court, With Father D.
as the picker-up -- a regular all-round Sport! They got the message of Rooster Hall, and down to his run they came, Prepared to scoff at the drover's bird, and to bet on the English Game; They hied them off to the drover's camp, while Saltbush rode before -- Old Rooster Hall was a blithsome man, when he thought of the treat in store.
They reached the camp, where the drover's cook, with countenance all serene, Was boiling beef in an iron pot, but never a fowl was seen.
"Take off the beef from the fire," said Bill, "and wait till you see the fight; There's something fresh for the bill-of-fare -- there's game-fowl stew tonight! For Mister Hall has a fighting cock, all feathered and clipped and spurred; And he's fetched him here, for a bit of sport, to fight our Australian bird.
I've made a match for our pet will win, though he's hardly a fighting cock, But he's game enough, and it's many a mile that he's tramped with the travelling stock.
" The cook he banged on a saucepan lid; and, soon as the sound was heard, Under the dray, in the shallow hid, a something moved and stirred: A great tame emu strutted out.
Said Saltbush, "Here's our bird!" Bur Rooster Hall, and his cronies two, drove home without a word.
The passing stranger within his gates that camps with old Rooster Hall Must talk about something else than fowls, if he wishes to talk at all.
For the record lies in the local Court, and filed in its deepest vault, That Peter Hall, of the Take 'Em Down, was tried for a fierce assault On a stranger man, who, in all good faith, and prompted by what he heard, Had asked old Hall if a British Game could beat an Australian bird; And Old McCrae, who was on the bench, as soon as the case was tried, Remarked, "Discharged with a clean discharge -- the assault was justified!"


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Under the Shadow of Kileys Hill

 This is the place where they all were bred; 
Some of the rafters are standing still; 
Now they are scattered and lost and dead, 
Every one from the old nest fled, 
Out of the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
Better it is that they ne'er came back -- Changes and chances are quickly rung; Now the old homestead is gone to rack, Green is the grass on the well-worn track Down by the gate where the roses clung.
Gone is the garden they kept with care; Left to decay at its own sweet will, Fruit trees and flower-beds eaten bare, Cattle and sheep where the roses were, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
Where are the children that strove and grew In the old homestead in days gone by? One is away on the far Barcoo Watching his cattle the long year through, Watching them starve in the droughts and die.
One, in the town where all cares are rife, Weary with troubles that cramp and kill, Fain would be done with the restless strife, Fain would go back to the old bush life, Back to the shadow of Kiley's Hill.
One is away on the roving quest, Seeking his share of the golden spoil; Out in the wastes of the trackless west, Wandering ever he gives the best Of his years and strength to the hopeless toil.
What of the parents? That unkempt mound Shows where they slumber united still; Rough is their grave, but they sleep as sound Out on the range as in holy ground, Under the shadow of Kiley's Hill.

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