George Essex Evans

(18 June 1863 – 10 November 1909 / London, England)

George Essex Evans Poems

1. Ode To The Philistines 4/13/2010
2. Seddon 4/13/2010
3. The Grey Road 4/13/2010
4. The Land Of The Dawning 4/13/2010
5. The Lion's Whelps 4/13/2010
6. The Dead Democrat 4/13/2010
7. The Song Of Life 4/13/2010
8. The Splendour And The Curse Of Song 4/13/2010
9. The Wayfarers 4/13/2010
10. Welcome 4/13/2010
11. William Henry Groom Vale` 4/13/2010
12. Women Of The West 4/13/2010
13. Thomas Joseph Byrnes 4/13/2010
14. To A Bigot 4/13/2010
15. To The Unknown God 4/13/2010
16. Toowoomba 4/13/2010
17. Victoria 4/13/2010
18. The Sword Of Pain 4/13/2010
19. The Two Goblets 4/13/2010
20. The Crown Of Empire 4/13/2010
21. The Song Of Gracia 4/13/2010
22. The Master 4/13/2010
23. Out Of The Silence 4/13/2010
24. Riches 4/13/2010
25. Morning Land 4/13/2010
26. The Average Man 4/13/2010
27. On The Plains 1/1/2004
28. The Doves Of Venus 4/13/2010
29. The Dream Star 4/13/2010
30. The Spirit Of Poetry 4/13/2010
31. The Wheels Of The System 4/13/2010
32. To The Irish Dead 4/13/2010
33. Ad Astra 4/13/2010
34. Loraine 4/13/2010
35. The Plains 4/13/2010
36. The Secret Key 4/13/2010
37. A Grave By The Sea 4/13/2010
38. Kara 4/13/2010
39. In A Garden 4/13/2010
40. From Loraine 4/13/2010
Best Poem of George Essex Evans

The Women Of The West

They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill,
The houses in the busy streets where life is never still,
The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best:
For love they faced the wilderness -- the Women of the West.

The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away,
And the old-time joys and faces -- they were gone for many a day;
In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock chains,
O'er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken ...

Read the full of The Women Of The West

A Nocturne

Like weary sea-birds spent with flight
   And faltering,
The slow hours beat across the night
   On leaden wing.
The wild bird knows where rest shall be
   Soe'er he roam.
Heart of my heart! apart from thee
   I have no home.

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