Biography of Roderic Quinn
Roderic Quinn (brother of Patrick Edward Quinn) was born in Sydney. His Irish parents had migrated, in 1853, to Australia. He received his education in Sydney together with his life long friends C.J.Brennan and E.J.Brady. He studied law for a while, then worked as a country schoolteacher. When he returned to Sydney he took a position as a freelance journalist. He wrote short stories for the 'Bulletin', and made a modest living from his poetry from the 1890s to the mid 1920s. His work was extremely appreciated by his contemporaries. He was linked with Victor Daly as poets of the 'Celtic Twilight'.
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Roderic Quinn Poems
Stars in the Sea
I took a boat on a starry night and went for a row on the water, and she danced like a child on a wake of light and bowed where the ripples caught her.
The Twenty-Fifth Of April
THIS day is Anzac Day! Made sacred by the memory Of those who fought and died, and fought and live, And gave the best that men may give
The Soul Of The Anzac
THE form that was mine was brown and hard, And thewed and muscled, and tall and straight; And often it rode from the station yard,
WITH the sorrow on me Neighbours come and go — Think me vain and foolish Nursing up my woe. With the grief-blade in me
BANNISTER, who lived for gain, Counting love and mateship weak, Bannister of Coolah Creek Once, and once alone, 'tis said,
An Empty Room
'THIS is the room where Pinksie died'; So runs the writing there on the wall. The world outside is a golden tide
All the heights of the high shores gleam Red and gold at the sunset hour: There comes the spell of a magic dream, And the Harbour seems a lotus-flower;
I SAID 'The dark deed matters nought, And this green gown becomes her well; For phrase and rhyme oft hide the thought,
At The Tide's Will
WHEN the tide came surging in To the beach it bore Drift-wood and brown weeds — These — and nothing more!
A Grey Day
THE long still day is ending In hollow and on height, The lighthouse seaward sending
All Of A Piece
ALL of a piece were the sunset light, The rose in the tree, and the golden girl; Beauty, the weaver, 'twas that wove them,
I NAMED her twice, I named her thrice, I named her ten times over; The wind heard, and the singing bird, And the bee in the creamy clover.
THE night-birds cry in the bush outside, And I write here, though the hour be late; And what shall I write of the man who died?
ALL still! and, high above, the sun In cloudless, golden reign — A mirage in the quivering west — A horseman on the plain!
SHE is standing at the gate,
Tall and sweet,
And although the hour be late
She will greet
Me, her lover,
Absent mind and tardy feet.