. Selected poems; . The Teams CLOUD of dust on the long, white road,And the teams go creeping on Inch by inch with the weary load; And by the power of the green-hide goadThe distant goal is won. With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust,And necks to the yokes bent low, The beasts are pulling as bullocks must; And the shining tires might almost rustWhile the spokes are turning slow. With face half-hid by a broad-brimmed hat,That shades from the heats white shouldered whip, with its green-hide driver plods with a gait like thatOf his weary, patient slaves. He wipes his brow, f
. Selected poems; . The Teams CLOUD of dust on the long, white road,And the teams go creeping on Inch by inch with the weary load; And by the power of the green-hide goadThe distant goal is won. With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust,And necks to the yokes bent low, The beasts are pulling as bullocks must; And the shining tires might almost rustWhile the spokes are turning slow. With face half-hid by a broad-brimmed hat,That shades from the heats white shouldered whip, with its green-hide driver plods with a gait like thatOf his weary, patient slaves. He wipes his brow, for the day is hot, And spits to the left with spite;He shouts at Bally, and flicks at Scot,And raises dust from the back of Spot,And spits to the dusty right. Hell sometimes pause as a thing of form In front of a settlers door,And ask for a drink, and remark Its warm,Or say Theres signs of a thunderstorm; But he seldom utters more. *<^,. y ^ 1 « -^^f ^. THE TEAMS 69 The rains are heavy on roads like these And, fronting his lonely home,For days together the settler seesThe waggons bogged to the axletrees, Or ploughing the sodden loam. And then, when the roads are at their worst, The bushmans children hearThe cruel blows of the whips reversedWhile bullocks pull as their hearts would burst, And bellow with pain and fear. And thus—with glimpses of home and rest— Are the long, long journeys done;And thus—tis a thankless life at the best!—Is Distance fought in the mighty West. And the lonely battle won. 1889 When the World was Wide TjHE world is narrow and ways are short, and our I lives are dull and slow, J^l^g^^^^B For little is new where the crowds resort, and less^fe^^^^S where the wanderers go; ^sa^SWH Greater or smaller, the same old things we see by thedull roadside—And tired of all is the spirit that sings of the days when theworld was wide. When the North was hale in the march of Time, and the South and the West were new
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