Edward George Dyson

(March 1865 - 22 August 1931 / Ballarat / Victoria / Australia)

Edward George Dyson Poems

81. Billjim 4/13/2010
82. How Herman Won The Cross 4/13/2010
83. Battle Passes 4/13/2010
84. As The Troops Went Through 4/13/2010
85. Hello, Soldier! 4/13/2010
86. Men Of Australia 1/1/2004
87. A Poor Joke 4/13/2010
88. Billy Khaki 4/13/2010
89. Australia 4/13/2010
90. Cleaning Up 1/1/2004
91. The Old Whim Horse 1/4/2003
92. The Church Bells 4/13/2010

Comments about Edward George Dyson

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  • Babyjoram Benson (5/18/2009 5:58:00 AM)

    Hello
    (favorfrank35@yahoo.co.uk)
    My name is Miss favor am 24yr old. I saw your profile today at www.poemhunter.com
    and it really acttract me alot i believe that you are the man i
    have been looking for to share my love; How is your health? i hope all is well
    with you. I believe that we can move from here; but remember that distance; age
    and colour dose not matter what matters is the true love and understanding; in
    my next
    e-mail i shall include my pictuer; i been waithing for your reply mail
    me with this mail address for further introduction.
    Bye hopeing to hear from you soonest

    (favorfrank35@yahoo.co.uk)

  • Rani Nemerem (9/9/2008 10:08:00 PM)

    hello my dear friend

Best Poem of Edward George Dyson

The Church Bells

The Viennese authorities have melted down
the great bell in St. Stephen's to supply metal
for guns or muntions. Every poor village
has made a similar gift.—Lokal Anzeiger.


The great bell booms across the town,
Reverberant and slow,
And drifting from their houses down
The calm-eyed people go.
Their feet fall on the portal stones
Their fathers' fathers trod;
And still the bell, with reverent tones,
From cottage nooks and purple thrones
Is calling souls to God.

The chapel bells with ardor spake
Above the poplars tall,
And ...

Read the full of The Church Bells

The Old Whim Horse

He's an old grey horse, with his head bowed sadly,
   And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft,
With the off-fore sprung and the hind screwed badly,
   And he bears all over the brands of graft;
And he lifts his head from the grass to wonder
   Why by night and day the whim is still,
Why the silence is, and the stampers' thunder
   Sounds forth no more from the shattered mill.

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