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'.
This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Roderic Quinn; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
Roderic Quinn Poems
A Song Of Keats
'TIS a tarnished book and old, Edges frayed and covers green! But, between the covers, gold — ...
I SAID 'The dark deed matters nought, And this green gown becomes her well; For phrase and rhyme oft hide the thought,
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;
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
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.
WE lit a fire, and straightway camped, And all night long We heard the river sing its song. Our horses fed, and neighed, and stamped;
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
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,
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.
ALL still! and, high above, the sun In cloudless, golden reign — A mirage in the quivering west — A horseman on the plain!
The Camp Within The West
O DID you see a troop go by
Way-weary and oppressed,
Dead kisses on the drooping lip
And a dead heart in the breast?
Yea, I have seen them one by one
Way-weary and oppressed,
And when I asked them, ‘Whither speed?’
They answered, ‘To the West!’