Alice Guerin Crist
Alice Guerin Crist , author and journalist, was born on 6 February 1876 at Clare Castle, Clare, Ireland, daughter of Patrick Guerin, chapel master, and his wife Winifred, née Roughan. Alice migrated with her family to Queensland at the age of 2. As her father was a teacher, she spent her childhood at small, south-eastern rural schools where he supervised her education and her work as a pupil-teacher. In 1896 she was appointed to Blackhall Range State School near Landsborough but after a transfer to West Haldon next year she was unfairly dismissed when an inspector found her en route to a wedding to retrieve truant students. She returned to her family at Douglas on the Darling Downs. On 4 ... more »
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Alice Guerin Crist Poems
A magic wrought of dying dreams A wizard light that creeps and glows; Painting grey hills and sluggish streams In tints of gold and rose
A Dream Of Heaven
They tell of harps and golden crowns, and singing, But oh, I think, when ends the strife and pain,
All rank on rank the tall white lillies stood, The graceful palms against the rose-flushed sky Showed gemmed with dew-drops, and red poppies glowed Through the rank grass near by.
They don’t believe in fairies, Those old folk wide and staid, They’ve never caught the glitter Of their wings in forest shade.
Oh my heart beat high with joy elate, When Danny rode in the Hunters’ Plate On Enniskillen, the raking grey- A mighty jumper, with power to stay!
A Letter From Palestine
A letter from “The East” it came today, And all the house is lightened of its gloom: A sun-browned desert wind through every room
We found one evening, in the scrub, a road the timber-getters made, a winding, dim, mysterious track, and we raced down it, half afraid.
A Young Rebel
The sun is setting behind the range, his golden rays pour down On a little figure, childish, strange, Bending over a volume worn,
As we came down the old boreen, Rose and I – Rose and I, At vesper time on Sunday e’en, We heard a banshee cry!
In a garden where the may made the straggling fences gay And the roses cream and scarlet shed their petals on the breeze
Murtagh The Cobbler
The harvest moon was shinin’ As Murtagh came from the fair, And Oh! The scent of the new-mown hay And the gorsebloom in the air.
A Song Of Delight
Oh! Have you stolen out, one summer morning To pick white crocus ‘neath the garden wall, Or shaken softly the big scented roses
November in Ireland
November days in Ireland The skies are dull and grey, But Oh! The clear strong flame of love, That burns by night and day.
O’Shea was a big railway ganger, clean-hearted, and clean-limbed and shy, With a glint of grey hair at his temples, and smile in his Irish
Comments about Alice Guerin Crist
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A magic wrought of dying dreams
A wizard light that creeps and glows;
Painting grey hills and sluggish streams
In tints of gold and rose
Staining with fire the cherry-snow
Lighting our hearts with sudden flame
As if the love of long ago
Back from its ashes came
Rose-flushed and radiant everything
And joy and hope are born anew;
Even the darting swallow's wing
Has caught its glowing hue
Ah! swift it dies from hill and plain...
Be wise dear heart and let me go;
Not love that lit our hearts again -
Only it's afterglow!