10 Best Famous Mobs Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Mobs poems. This is a select list of the best famous Mobs poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Mobs poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of mobs poems.

• All Famous Mobs Poems

 Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember,
Me, sitting here bored as a loepard
In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps,
Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding
And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers
Sipping their liquids from assorted pots,
Pitchers and Coronation goblets
Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries
Bow down, a local constellation,
Toward their admirers in the tabletop:
Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them ---
Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue?
The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends. They stink of armpits
And the invovled maladies of autumn,
Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.

The roses in the Toby jug
Gave up the ghost last night. High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch,
Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid 
Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at
By chrysanthemums the size
Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same
Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice
Are rattling the cracker packets. Fine flour
Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic?
You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing
With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood,
Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?

 ACT I. SC. I

Enter Teryth from riding, Winefred following.

T. WHAT is it, Gwen, my girl? why do you hover and haunt me? 

W. You came by Caerwys, sir? 
T. I came by Caerwys. 
W. There
Some messenger there might have met you from my uncle. 
T. Your uncle met the messenger—met me; and this the message:
Lord Beuno comes to-night. 
W. To-night, sir! 
T. Soon, now: therefore
Have all things ready in his room. 
W. There needs but little doing. 
T. Let what there needs be done. Stay! with him one companion,
His deacon, Dirvan Warm: twice over must the welcome be,
But both will share one cell.—This was good news, Gwenvrewi. 
W. Ah yes! 
T. Why, get thee gone then; tell thy mother I want her.

Exit Winefred.

No man has such a daughter. The fathers of the world
Call no such maiden ‘mine’. The deeper grows her dearness
And more and more times laces round and round my heart,
The more some monstrous hand gropes with clammy fingers there,
Tampering with those sweet bines, draws them out, strains them, strains them;
Meantime some tongue cries ‘What, Teryth! what, thou poor fond father!
How when this bloom, this honeysuckle, that rides the air so rich about thee,
Is all, all sheared away, thus!’ Then I sweat for fear.
Or else a funeral, and yet ’tis not a funeral,
Some pageant which takes tears and I must foot with feeling that
Alive or dead my girl is carried in it, endlessly
Goes marching thro’ my mind. What sense is this? It has none.
This is too much the father; nay the mother. Fanciful!
I here forbid my thoughts to fool themselves with fears.

Enter Gwenlo.
. . . . . . . . 

ACT II.—Scene, a wood ending in a steep bank over a dry dene, Winefred having been murdered within. Re-enter Caradoc with a bloody sword.

C. My heart, where have we been? What have we seen, my mind?
What stroke has Caradoc’s right arm dealt? what done? Head of a rebel
Struck off it has; written upon lovely limbs,
In bloody letters, lessons of earnest, of revenge;
Monuments of my earnest, records of my revenge,
On one that went against me wh?reas I had warned her—
Warned her! well she knew. I warned her of this work.
What work? what harm ’s done? There is no harm done, none yet;
Perhaps we struck no blow, Gwenvrewi lives perhaps;
To makebelieve my mood was—mock. O I might think so
But here, here is a workman from his day’s task sweats.
Wiped I am sure this was; it seems not well; for still,
Still the scarlet swings and dances on the blade.
So be it. Thou steel, thou butcher,
I c?n scour thee, fresh burnish thee, sheathe thee in thy dark lair; these drops
Never, never, never in their blue banks again.
The woeful, Cradock, O the woeful word! Then what,
What have we seen? Her head, sheared from her shoulders, fall,
And lapped in shining hair, roll to the bank’s edge; then
Down the beetling banks, like water in waterfalls,
It stooped and flashed and fell and ran like water away.
Her eyes, oh and her eyes!
In all her beauty, and sunlight to it is a pit, den, darkness,
Foam-falling is not fresh to it, rainbow by it not beaming,
In all her body, I say, no place was like her eyes,
No piece matched those eyes kept most part much cast down
But, being lifted, immortal, of immortal brightness.
Several times I saw them, thrice or four times turning;
Round and round they came and flashed towards heaven: O there,
There they did appeal. Therefore airy vengeances
Are afoot; heaven-vault fast purpling portends, and what first lightning
Any instant falls means me. And I do not repent;
I do not and I will not repent, not repent.
The blame bear who aroused me. What I have done violent
I have like a lion done, lionlike done,
Honouring an uncontrolled royal wrathful nature,
Mantling passion in a grandeur, crimson grandeur.
Now be my pride then perfect, all one piece. Henceforth
In a wide world of defiance Caradoc lives alone,
Loyal to his own soul, laying his own law down, no law nor
Lord now curb him for ever. O daring! O deep insight!
What is virtue? Valour; only the heart valiant.
And right? Only resolution; will, his will unwavering
Who, like me, knowing his nature to the heart home, nature’s business,
Despatches with no flinching. But will flesh, O can flesh
Second this fiery strain? Not always; O no no!
We cannot live this life out; sometimes we must weary
And in this darksome world what comfort can I find?
Down this darksome world c?mfort wh?re can I find
When ’ts light I quenched; its rose, time’s one rich rose, my hand,
By her bloom, fast by her fresh, her fleec?d bloom,
Hideous dashed down, leaving earth a winter withering
With no now, no Gwenvrewi. I must miss her most
That might have spared her were it but for passion-sake. Yes,
To hunger and not have, y?t hope ?n for, to storm and strive and
Be at every assault fresh foiled, worse flung, deeper disappointed,
The turmoil and the torment, it has, I swear, a sweetness,
Keeps a kind of joy in it, a zest, an edge, an ecstasy,
Next after sweet success. I am not left even this;
I all my being have hacked in half with her neck: one part,
Reason, selfdisposal, choice of better or worse way,
Is corpse now, cannot change; my other self, this soul,
Life’s quick, this k?nd, this k?en self-feeling,
With dreadful distillation of thoughts sour as blood,
Must all day long taste murder. What do n?w then? Do? Nay,
Deed-bound I am; one deed treads all down here cramps all doing. What do? Not yield,
Not hope, not pray; despair; ay, that: brazen despair out,
Brave all, and take what comes—as here this rabble is come,
Whose bloods I reck no more of, no more rank with hers
Than sewers with sacred oils. Mankind, that mobs, comes. Come! 

Enter a crowd, among them Teryth, Gwenlo, Beuno.
. . . . . . . .

After Winefred’s raising from the dead and the breaking out of the fountain.

BEUNO. O now while skies are blue, now while seas are salt,
While rushy rains shall fall or brooks shall fleet from fountains,
While sick men shall cast sighs, of sweet health all despairing,
While blind men’s eyes shall thirst after daylight, draughts of daylight,
Or deaf ears shall desire that lipmusic that ’s lost upon them,
While cripples are, while lepers, dancers in dismal limb-dance,
Fallers in dreadful frothpits, waterfearers wild,
Stone, palsy, cancer, cough, lung wasting, womb not bearing,
Rupture, running sores, what more? in brief; in burden,
As long as men are mortal and God merciful,
So long to this sweet spot, this leafy lean-over,
This Dry Dene, now no longer dry nor dumb, but moist and musical
With the uproll and the downcarol of day and night delivering
Water, which keeps thy name, (for not in r?ck wr?tten,
But in pale water, frail water, wild rash and reeling water,
That will not wear a print, that will not stain a pen,
Thy venerable record, virgin, is recorded).
Here to this holy well shall pilgrimages be,
And not from purple Wales only nor from elmy England,
But from beyond seas, Erin, France and Flanders, everywhere,
Pilgrims, still pilgrims, m?re p?lgrims, still more poor pilgrims.
. . . . . . . .
What sights shall be when some that swung, wretches, on crutches
Their crutches shall cast from them, on heels of air departing,
Or they go rich as roseleaves hence that loathsome c?me hither!
Not now to n?me even
Those dearer, more divine boons whose haven the heart is.
. . . . . . . .
As sure as what is most sure, sure as that spring primroses
Shall new-dapple next year, sure as to-morrow morning,
Amongst come-back-again things, th?ngs with a revival, things with a recovery,
Thy name…
. . . . . . . .

 MOVING-PICTURE ACTRESS

(After seeing the reel called "Oil and Water.")


Beauty has a throne-room
In our humorous town,
Spoiling its hob-goblins,
Laughing shadows down.
Rank musicians torture
Ragtime ballads vile,
But we walk serenely
Down the odorous aisle.
We forgive the squalor
And the boom and squeal
For the Great Queen flashes
From the moving reel.

Just a prim blonde stranger
In her early day,
Hiding brilliant weapons,
Too averse to play,
Then she burst upon us
Dancing through the night.
Oh, her maiden radiance,
Veils and roses white.
With new powers, yet cautious,
Not too smart or skilled,
That first flash of dancing
Wrought the thing she willed:—
Mobs of us made noble 
By her strong desire,
By her white, uplifting,
Royal romance-fire.

Though the tin piano
Snarls its tango rude,
Though the chairs are shaky
And the dramas crude,
Solemn are her motions,
Stately are her wiles,
Filling oafs with wisdom,
Saving souls with smiles;
'Mid the restless actors 
She is rich and slow.
She will stand like marble,
She will pause and glow,
Though the film is twitching,
Keep a peaceful reign,
Ruler of her passion,
Ruler of our pain!

 WHILE at the stook the shearers cow’r
To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r,
Or in gulravage rinnin scowr
 To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour
 In idle rhyme.


My musie, tir’d wi’ mony a sonnet
On gown, an’ ban’, an’ douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she’s done it,
 Lest they should blame her,
An’ rouse their holy thunder on it
 An anathem her.


I own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy,
That I, a simple, country bardie,
Should meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy,
 Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi’ a single wordie,
 Lowse hell upon me.


But I gae mad at their grimaces,
Their sighin, cantin, grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers, an’ half-mile graces,
 Their raxin conscience,
Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces
 Waur nor their nonsense.


There’s Gaw’n, misca’d waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid’s the priest
 Wha sae abus’d him:
And may a bard no crack his jest
 What way they’ve us’d him?


See him, the poor man’s friend in need,
The gentleman in word an’ deed—
An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleed
 By worthless, skellums,
An’ not a muse erect her head
 To cowe the blellums?


O Pope, had I thy satire’s darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
 An’ tell aloud
Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts
 To cheat the crowd.


God knows, I’m no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be,
But twenty times I rather would be
 An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours hid be
 Just for a screen.


An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, an’ malice fause
 He’ll still disdain,
An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws,
 Like some we ken.


They take religion in their mouth;
They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth,
For what?—to gie their malice skouth
 On some puir wight,
An’ hunt him down, owre right and ruth,
 To ruin straight.


All hail, Religion! maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line
 Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatise false friends of thine
 Can ne’er defame thee.


Tho’ blotch’t and foul wi’ mony a stain,
An’ far unworthy of thy train,
With trembling voice I tune my strain,
 To join with those
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain
 In spite of foes:


In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs,
In spite o’ undermining jobs,
In spite o’ dark banditti stabs
 At worth an’ merit,
By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes,
 But hellish spirit.


O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,
Within thy presbyterial bound
A candid liberal band is found
 Of public teachers,
As men, as Christians too, renown’d,
 An’ manly preachers.


Sir, in that circle you are nam’d;
Sir, in that circle you are fam’d;
An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d
 (Which gies you honour)
Even, sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d,
 An’ winning manner.


Pardon this freedom I have ta’en,
An’ if impertinent I’ve been,
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane
 Whase heart ne’er wrang’d ye,
But to his utmost would befriend
 Ought that belang’d ye.

 (From the French of Emile Verhaeren)

He who walks through the meadows of Champagne
At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear,
Sees it draw near
Like some great mountain set upon the plain,
From radiant dawn until the close of day,
Nearer it grows
To him who goes
Across the country. When tall towers lay
Their shadowy pall
Upon his way,
He enters, where
The solid stone is hollowed deep by all
Its centuries of beauty and of prayer.
Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings
Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls,
Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls
What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings?
Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train,
Whose mighty hand Saint Remy's hand did keep
And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep
An echo of the voice of Charlemagne.
For God thou has known fear, when from His side
Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new,
But still the sky was bountiful and blue
And thou wast crowned with France's love and pride.
Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base;
And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass
The setting sun sees thousandfold his face;
Sorrow and joy, in stately silence pass
Across thy walls, the shadow and the light;
Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white
Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames,
The brows of saints with venerable names,
And in the night erect a fiery wall.
A great but silent fervour burns in all
Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb,
And know that down below, beside the Rhine --
Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in line --
With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come.
Suddenly, each knows fear;
Swift rumours pass, that every one must hear,
The hostile banners blaze against the sky
And by the embassies mobs rage and cry.
Now war has come, and peace is at an end.
On Paris town the German troops descend.
They are turned back, and driven to Champagne.
And now, as to so many weary men,
The glorious temple gives them welcome, when
It meets them at the bottom of the plain.
At once, they set their cannon in its way.
There is no gable now, nor wall
That does not suffer, night and day,
As shot and shell in crushing torrents fall.
The stricken tocsin quivers through the tower;
The triple nave, the apse, the lonely choir
Are circled, hour by hour,
With thundering bands of fire
And Death is scattered broadcast among men.
And then
That which was splendid with baptismal grace;
The stately arches soaring into space,
The transepts, columns, windows gray and gold,
The organ, in whose tones the ocean rolled,
The crypts, of mighty shades the dwelling places,
The Virgin's gentle hands, the Saints' pure faces,
All, even the pardoning hands of Christ the Lord
Were struck and broken by the wanton sword
Of sacrilegious lust.
O beauty slain, O glory in the dust!
Strong walls of faith, most basely overthrown!
The crawling flames, like adders glistening
Ate the white fabric of this lovely thing.
Now from its soul arose a piteous moan,
The soul that always loved the just and fair.
Granite and marble loud their woe confessed,
The silver monstrances that Popes had blessed,
The chalices and lamps and crosiers rare
Were seared and twisted by a flaming breath;
The horror everywhere did range and swell,
The guardian Saints into this furnace fell,
Their bitter tears and screams were stilled in death.
Around the flames armed hosts are skirmishing,
The burning sun reflects the lurid scene;
The German army, fighting for its life,
Rallies its torn and terrified left wing;
And, as they near this place
The imperial eagles see
Before them in their flight,
Here, in the solemn night,
The old cathedral, to the years to be
Showing, with wounded arms, their own disgrace.

 THE Queen of Birds, t'encrease the Regal Stock, 
Had hatch'd her young Ones in a stately Oak, 
Whose Middle-part was by a Cat possest, 
And near the Root with Litter warmly drest, 
A teeming Sow had made her peaceful Nest. 
(Thus Palaces are cramm'd from Roof to Ground, 
And Animals, as various, in them found.) 
When to the Sow, who no Misfortune fear'd, 
Puss with her fawning Compliments appear'd, 
Rejoicing much at her Deliv'ry past, 
And that she 'scap'd so well, who bred so fast. 
Then every little Piglin she commends, 
And likens them to all their swinish Friends; 
Bestows good Wishes, but with Sighs implies, 
That some dark Fears do in her Bosom rise. 
Such Tempting Flesh, she cries, will Eagles spare? 
Methinks, good Neighbour, you should live in Care: 
Since I, who bring not forth such dainty Bits, 
Tremble for my unpalatable Chits; 
And had I but foreseen, the Eagle's Bed 
Was in this fatal Tree to have been spread; 
I sooner wou'd have kitten'd in the Road, 
Than made this Place of Danger my abode. 
I heard her young Ones lately cry for Pig, 
And pity'd you, that were so near, and big. 
In Friendship this I secretly reveal, 
Lest Pettitoes shou'd make th' ensuing Meal; 
Or else, perhaps, Yourself may be their aim, 
For a Sow's Paps has been a Dish of Fame. 
No more the sad, affrighted Mother hears, 
But overturning all with boist'rous Fears, 
She from her helpless Young in haste departs, 
Whilst Puss ascends, to practice farther Arts. 
The Anti-chamber pass'd, she scratch'd the Door; 
The Eagle, ne'er alarum'd so before, 
Bids her come in, and look the Cause be great, 
That makes her thus disturb the Royal Seat; 
Nor think, of Mice and Rats some pest'ring Tale 
Shall, in excuse of Insolence, prevail. 
Alas! my Gracious Lady, quoth the Cat, 
I think not of such Vermin; Mouse, or Rat 
To me are tasteless grown; nor dare I stir 
To use my Phangs, or to expose my Fur. 
A Foe intestine threatens all around, 
And ev'n this lofty Structure will confound; 
A Pestilential Sow, a meazel'd Pork 
On the Foundation has been long at work, 
Help'd by a Rabble, issu'd from her Womb, 
Which she has foster'd in that lower Room; 
Who now for Acorns are so madly bent, 
That soon this Tree must fall, for their Content. 
I wou'd have fetch'd some for th' unruly Elves; 
But 'tis the Mob's delight to help Themselves: 
Whilst your high Brood must with the meanest drop, 
And steeper be their Fall, as next the Top; 
Unless you soon to Jupiter repair, 
And let him know, the Case demands his Care. 

Oh! May the Trunk but stand, 'till you come back! 
But hark! already sure, I hear it crack. 
Away, away---The Eagle, all agast, 
Soars to the Sky, nor falters in her haste: 
Whilst crafty Puss, now o'er the Eyry reigns, 
Replenishing her Maw with treach'rous Gains. 
The Sow she plunders next, and lives alone; 
The Pigs, the Eaglets, and the House her own. 

Curs'd Sycophants! How wretched is the Fate 
Of those, who know you not, till 'tis too late!

 The God of Fair Beginnings
 Hath prospered here my hand --
The cargoes of my lading,
 And the keels of my command.
For out of many ventures
 That sailed with hope as high,
My own have made the better trade,
 And Admiral am I.

To me my King's much honour,
 To me my people's love --
To me the pride of Princes
 And power all pride above;
To me the shouting cities,
 To me the mob's refrain: --
"Who knows not noble Valdez
 "Hath never heard of Spain."

But I remember comrades --
 Old playmates on new seas --
Whenas we traded orpiment
 Among the savages --
A thousand leagues to south'ard
 And thirty years removed --
They knew nor noble Valdez,
 But me they knew and loved.

Then they that found good liquor,
 They drank it not alone,
And they that found fair plunder,
 They told us every one,
About our chosen islands
 Or secret shoals between,
When, weary from far voyage,
 We gathered to careen.

There burned our breaming-fagots
 All pale along the shore:
There rose our worn pavilions --
 A sail above an oar:
As flashed each yeaming anchor
 Through mellow seas afire,
So swift our careless captains
 Rowed each to his desire.

Where lay our loosened harness?
 Where turned our naked feet?
Whose tavern 'mid the palm-trees?
 What quenchings of what heat?
Oh, fountain in the desert!
 Oh, cistern in the waste!
Oh, bread we ate in secret!
 Oh, cup we spilled in haste!

The youth new-taught of longing,
 The widow curbed and wan,
The goodwife proud at season,
 And the maid aware of man --
All souls unslaked, consuming,
 Defrauded in delays,
Desire not more their quittance
 Than I those forfeit days!

I dreamed to wait my pleasure
 Unchanged my spring would bide:
Wherefore, to wait my pleasure,
 I put my spring aside
Till, first in face of Fortune,
 And last in mazed disdain,
I made Diego Valdez
 High Admiral of Spain.

Then walked no wind 'neath Heaven
 Nor surge that did not aid --
I dared extreme occasion,
 Nor ever one betrayed.
They wrought a deeper treason --
 (Led seas that served my needs!)
They sold Diego Valdez
 To bondage of great deeds.

The tempest flung me seaward,
 And pinned and bade me hold
The course I might not alter --
 And men esteemed me bold!
The calms embayed my quarry,
 The fog-wreath sealed his eyes;
The dawn-wind brought my topsails --
 And men esteemed me wise!

Yet, 'spite my tyrant triumphs,
 Bewildered, dispossessed --
My dream held I beore me
 My vision of my rest;
But, crowned by Fleet and People,
 And bound by King and Pope --
Stands here Diego Valdez
 To rob me of my hope.

No prayer of mine shall move him.
 No word of his set free
The Lord of Sixty Pennants
 And the Steward of the Sea.
His will can loose ten thousand
 To seek their loves again --
But not Diego Valdez,
 High Admiral of Spain.

There walks no wind 'neath Heaven
 Nor wave that shall restore
The old careening riot
 And the clamorous, crowded shore --
The fountain in the desert,
 The cistern in the waste,
The bread we ate in secret,
 The cup we spilled in haste.

Now call I to my Captains --
 For council fly the sign --
Now leap their zealous galleys,
 Twelve-oared, across the brine.
To me the straiter prison,
 To me the heavier chain --
To me Diego Valdez,
 High Admiral of Spain!

 ("Qui leur eût dit l'austère destineé?") 
 
 {II. v., November, 1836.} 


 Who then, to them{1} had told the Future's story? 
 Or said that France, low bowed before their glory, 
 One day would mindful be 
 Of them and of their mournful fate no more, 
 Than of the wrecks its waters have swept o'er 
 The unremembering sea? 
 
 That their old Tuileries should see the fall 
 Of blazons from its high heraldic hall, 
 Dismantled, crumbling, prone;{2} 
 Or that, o'er yon dark Louvre's architrave{3} 
 A Corsican, as yet unborn, should grave 
 An eagle, then unknown? 
 
 That gay St. Cloud another lord awaited, 
 Or that in scenes Le Nôtre's art created 
 For princely sport and ease, 
 Crimean steeds, trampling the velvet glade, 
 Should browse the bark beneath the stately shade 
 Of the great Louis' trees? 
 
 Fraser's Magazine. 
 
 {Footnote 1: The young princes, afterwards Louis XVIII. and Charles X.} 
 
 {Footnote 2: The Tuileries, several times stormed by mobs, was so 
 irreparably injured by the Communists that, in 1882, the Paris Town 
 Council decided that the ruins should be cleared away.} 
 
 {Footnote 3: After the Eagle and the Bee superseded the Lily-flowers, 
 the Third Napoleon's initial "N" flourished for two decades, but has 
 been excised or plastered over, the words "National Property" or 
 "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity" being cut in the stone profusely.} 


 

 That slim creek out of the sky
the dried-blood western gum tree
is all stir in its high reaches:

its strung haze-blue foliage is dancing
points down in breezy mobs, swapping
pace and place in an all-over sway

retarded en masse by crimson blossom.
Bees still at work up there tack
around their exploded furry likeness

and the lawn underneath's a napped rug
of eyelash drift, of blooms flared
like a sneeze in a redhaired nostril,

minute urns, pinch-sized rockets
knocked down by winds, by night-creaking
fig-squirting bats, or the daily

parrot gang with green pocketknife wings.
Bristling food tough delicate
raucous life, each flower comes

as a spray in its own turned vase,
a taut starbust, honeyed model
of the tree's fragrance crisping in your head.

When the japanese plum tree 
was shedding in spring, we speculated
there among the drizzling petals

what kind of exquisitely precious
artistic bloom might be gendered
in a pure ethereal compost

of petals potted as they fell.
From unpetalled gun-debris
we know what is grown continually,

a tower of fabulous swish tatters,
a map hoisted upright, a crusted
riverbed with up-country show towns.

 It lies beyond the Western Pines 
Towards the sinking sun, 
And not a survey mark defines 
The bounds of "Brumby's Run". 

On odds and ends of mountain land, 
On tracks of range and rock 
Where no one else can make a stand, 
Old Brumby rears his stock. 

A wild, unhandled lot they are 
Of every shape and breed. 
They venture out 'neath moon and star 
Along the flats to feed; 

But when the dawn makes pink the sky 
And steals along the plain, 
The Brumby horses turn and fly 
Towards the hills again. 

The traveller by the mountain-track 
May hear their hoof-beats pass, 
And catch a glimpse of brown and black 
Dim shadows on the grass. 
The eager stockhorse pricks his ears 
And lifts his head on high 
In wild excitement when he hears 
The Brumby mob go by. 

Old Brumby asks no price or fee 
O'er all his wide domains: 
The man who yards his stock is free 
To keep them for his pains. 

So, off to scour the mountain-side 
With eager eyes aglow, 
To strongholds where the wild mobs hide 
The gully-rakers go. 

A rush of horses through the trees, 
A red shirt making play; 
A sound of stockwhips on the breeze, 
They vanish far away! 

Ah, me! before our day is done 
We long with bitter pain 
To ride once more on Brumby's Run 
And yard his mob again.