A Fragment

They say that poison-sprinkled flowers
Are sweeter in perfume
Than when, untouched by deadly dew,
They glowed in early bloom.

They say that men condemned to die
Have quaffed the sweetened wine
With higher relish than the juice
Of the untampered vine.

They say that in the witchs song,
Though rude and harsh it be,
There blends a wild, mysterious strain
Of weirdest melody.

And I believe the devils voice
Sinks deeper in our ear
Than any whisper sent from Heaven,
However sweet and clear.

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Adam Lindsay Gordon was an Australian poet, jockey, and politician. Born in the Azores to Scottish parents, he moved to Australia in 1853. Known for his bush ballads and lyrical poetry, Gordon's works often reflect his passions for horse racing and the Australian landscape. His notable works include "The Sick Stockrider" and "Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes." Unfortunately, he struggled with depression and financial troubles, leading to his untimely death at the age of 36.

Adam Lindsay Gordon

Credat Judaeus Apella

Adam Lindsay Gordon, Simple Poetry

Potters Clay - An Allegorical Interlude

Adam Lindsay Gordon, Simple Poetry

In The Garden

Adam Lindsay Gordon, Simple Poetry

Wormwood And Nightshade

Adam Lindsay Gordon, Simple Poetry

English

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Wine can invest the most disgusting hole
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Wine can clothe the most sordid hole
in miraculous luxury,
and let many a fabulous portico float free
in the gold of its red glow,
like a setting sun in the skys cloudy sea.

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extends the limitless,
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fills the soul beyond its capacities,
with the pleasures of gloom and of darkness.

None of that equals the poison that flows
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my dreams come flocking, a host,
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Fragment: Wine Of The Fairies.

I am drunk with the honey wine
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Which fairies catch in hyacinth bowls.
The bats, the dormice, and the moles
Sleep in the walls or under the sward
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The Décadent was speaking to his soul -
Poor useless thing, he said,
Why did God burden me with such as thou?
The body were enough,
The body gives me all.

The soul's a sort of sentimental wife
That prays and whimpers of the higher life,
Objects to latch-keys, and bewails the old,
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When life was a blank canvas, yet untouched
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Yet, little soul, thou hast fine eyes,
And knowest fine airy motions,
Hast a voice -
Why wilt thou so devote them to the church?

His face grew strangely sweet -
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He dreamed of a new sin:
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The sword slew one in deadly strife;
One perishd by the bowl;
The third lies self-slain by the knife;
For three the bells may toll,
I loved her better than my life,
And better than my soul.

Aye, father! hast thou come at last?
Tis somewhat late to pray;
Lifes crimson tides are ebbing fast,
They drain my soul away;
Mine eyes with film are overcast,
The lights are waning grey.

This curl from her bright head I shore,
And this her hands gave mine;
See, one is stained with purple gore,
And one with poisond wine;
Give these to her when all is oer,
How serpent-like they twine!

We three were brethren in arms,
And sworn companions we;
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Slander.

Of all the poison plants that grow,
And flourish in the human breast,
No other plant, perhaps, hath so
Deep clench'd a root, or peaceful rest.

No other plant has such a fruit,
At once so sweet, and deadly too,
As that which loads each branch and shoot,
And falls for me to eat, and you.

Fell jealousy, the monster wild,
Whose green eyes roll in frenzy round,
His ravages are small, and mild,
To thine, and narrow'r far his ground.

His pow'r is felt around his home,
But who can gauge the sway of thine,
Which reaches high to heaven's dome,
And acts within the darksome mine?

Thy poison drops distil each hour,
To blight, to ruin and destroy,
And find with dark, insidious pow'r,
The heart of woman, man and boy.

What ant...

Thomas Frederick Young