John Alexander Ross McKellar
John Alexander Ross McKellar Poems
Cross bars and posts, the echo of distant bells,
The cool and friendly scent of whispering turf;
And in the air a little wind that tells
Of moonlit waves beyond a murmuring surf.
...
Ten years ago I climbed a hill,
And there I climbed a tree,
So, through the mist and raining, watched
The troopships go to sea.
...
Down on the floor, among the waving bronze
Of weeds, and threading lilies' roots, are fish;
And on the surface, flowers, leaves and swans.
...
Only the creaking murmur of the wheel,
The trembling of the engines as they turn;
The ferry glides upon an even keel,
And Pinchgut squats in shadow hard astern. . . .
...
A sweet Franciscan of the Lands
Sir Thomas Mitchell stares and stands
Indifferent to the gentle words
Of Bass, befriended of the birds
...
The Marquis looks towards the lighted stage;
One hand is his; the lover's lips engage
The other, while the lady stands between,
Calm in her beauty, smiling and serene.
...
The Best Poem Of John Alexander Ross McKellar
Football Field:Evening
Cross bars and posts, the echo of distant bells,
The cool and friendly scent of whispering turf;
And in the air a little wind that tells
Of moonlit waves beyond a murmuring surf.
The glittering blue and verdant afternoon
Has locked up all its colours, leaving dearth,
Deserted, underneath a careless moon,
The glory has departed from this earth.
The goals stand up on their appointed lines,
But all their worth has faded with the sun;
Unchallenged now I cross their strict confines;
The ball is gone, the game is lost and won.
I walk again where once I came to grief,
Crashing to earth, yet holding fast the ball,
Symbol of yet another True Belief,
The last but surely not the least of all:
To strain and struggle to the end of strength;
To lean on skill, not ask a gift of chance,
To win, or lose, and recognize at length
The game the thing; the rest, a circumstance.
And now the teams are vanished from the field,
But still an echo of their presence clings;
The moon discovers what the day concealed,
The gracefulness and grief of passing things.
Quick as the ball is thrown from hand to hand
And fleetly as the wing three-quarters run,
Swifter shall Time to his defences stand
And bring the fastest falling one by one,
Until the moon, that looked on Stonehenge ground
Before the stones, will rise and sink and set
Above this field, where also will be found
The relics of a mystery men forget.
John Alexander Ross McKellar Comments
These are not boring lines, but, rather thoughtful, well-made poems with fearless rhyming. Do you read Houseman?
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4/26/2024 7:34:53 PM # 1.0.0.1119
May i inquire if anyone here would know the date of his poem Football Field: Evening's first publication or date of being written?