Peter McArthur

(10 March 1866 - 10 October 1924 / Ekfrid, Middlesex County)

Peter McArthur Poems

1. To The Birds 5/10/2012
2. The Innocents 5/10/2012
3. To D. A. Mackellar 5/10/2012
4. Heartsease 5/10/2012
5. A Thaw 5/10/2012
6. Birds Of Passage 5/10/2012
7. In Oblivan 5/10/2012
8. Earthborn 5/10/2012
9. Dolce Far Niente 5/10/2012
10. Growth 5/10/2012
11. Reticence 5/10/2012
12. Courage 5/10/2012
13. A Confession 5/10/2012
14. De Profundis 5/10/2012
15. The Ocean Liner 5/10/2012
16. The Prodigal 5/10/2012
17. Aspiration 5/10/2012
18. Questionings 5/10/2012
19. To Mr Fashionable Fiancee 5/10/2012
20. All In 5/10/2012
21. Man 5/10/2012
22. Consecration 5/10/2012
23. Solace 5/10/2012
24. Corn Planting 5/9/2012
25. An Indian Wind Song 5/9/2012
26. The End Of The Drought 5/9/2012
27. To Bernhardt 5/10/2012
28. Shakespeare 5/10/2012
29. The Shaw Memorial 5/10/2012
30. Life 5/10/2012
31. The True Evangel 5/10/2012
32. Duty 5/10/2012
33. Dreams 5/10/2012
34. Summum Bonum 5/10/2012
35. Silence 5/10/2012
36. The Stone 5/9/2012
37. Sugar Weather 5/9/2012
38. Parents Plea 5/10/2012
39. The Salt Marshes 5/10/2012
Best Poem of Peter McArthur

The Salt Marshes

There was a light upon the sea that made
Familiar things mysterious, which to teach,
With inarticulate, alluring speech,
The living wind with lisping tongue essayed.
O'er sand and weed and spongy moss I strayed
And lifeless, orient shells, musing on each;
While casting nets with ever wider reach
A fisher plied his immemorial trade.
A sea-bird winged the aerial solitude
Searching the deep for his appointed dole,
Where his wide-wandering flocks the ocean feeds;
And with the day's full orbed strength indued,
At one with all, by all illumed, my soul ...

Read the full of The Salt Marshes

An Indian Wind Song

The wolf of the winter wind is swift,
And hearts are still and cheeks are pale,
When we hear his howl in the ghostly drift
As he rushes past on a phantom trail;
And all the night we huddle and fear,
For we know that his path is the path of Death,
And the flames burn low, when his steps are near,
And the dim hut reeks with his grave-cold breath.

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