John Le Gay Brereton
A singing voice is in my dream
The voice of Erskine, on his boulders,
Babbling and shouting till he shoulders
Stoutly against the heavier stream.
No longer now my curtained sight,
On serried books and pictures dwelling,
Of long-neglected work is telling,
But looks beyond the travelling night.
And here no longer is my home,
For you and I are far asunder:
I hear again the cascade thunder
And watch the little pool of foam.
And where the water, pouring sleek,
In sudden whiteness flings his treasure,
I see you sitting, Queen of Pleasure,
Clad only by the glittering creek.
I hold my arms to you once more,
For O my longing flesh is aching,
And you, your rocky throne forsaking,
Come cool and radiant to the shore.
I see my girl of girls recline
On smooth rock sloping to the water;
Then savagely have leapt and caught her,
And limpid eyes look up at mine.
Love, Love, O Love, the embracing sun,
The trees, the creek, the earth our mother,
Who made that hour, give such another,
And make us—see us—know us one.
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Comments about this poem (Erskine by John Le Gay Brereton )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(8 February 1911 – 6 October 1979)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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