Arthur Patchett Martin (18 February 1851 – 15 February 1902 / Woolwich, Kent, England)

Not sweeter to the storm-tossed mariner
   Is glimpse of home, where wife and children wait
   To welcome him with kisses at the gate,
Than to the town-worn man the breezy stir
   Of mountain winds on rugged pathless heights:
   His long-pent soul drinks in the deep delights
That Nature hath in store. The sun-kissed bay
   Gleams thro' the grand old gnarled gum-tree boughs
Like burnished brass; the strong-winged bird of prey
Sweeps by, upon his lonely vengeful way --
   While over all, like breath of holy vows,
   The sweet airs blow, and the high-vaulted sky
Looks down in pity this fair Summer day
   On all poor earth-born creatures doomed to die.