Adam Lindsay Gordon

(19 October 1833 – 24 June 1870 / Azores)

Adam Lindsay Gordon Poems

1. An Exile's Farewell 1/1/2004
2. A Dedication 1/1/2004
3. A Song Of Autumn 1/1/2004
4. Deliah 2/26/2010
5. Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric 1/1/2004
6. Doubtful Dreams 2/26/2010
7. Borrow'D Plumes 2/26/2010
8. De Te 2/26/2010
9. The Swimmer 1/1/2004
10. A Hunting Song 3/3/2010
11. Early Adieux 2/26/2010
12. Cui Bono 3/3/2010
13. A Basket Of Flowers 2/26/2010
14. The Sick Stockrider 1/1/2004
15. Finis Exoptatus 2/27/2010
16. Ars Longa 2/26/2010
17. Argemone 2/26/2010
18. Gone 1/1/2004
19. Exodus Parthenidae 2/26/2010
20. From Lightning And Tempest 2/27/2010
21. By Wood And Wold 2/27/2010
22. Bellona 3/3/2010
23. Confiteor 2/26/2010
24. A Legend Of Madrid 2/26/2010
25. The Last Leap 1/1/2004
26. A Fragment 3/3/2010
27. By Flood And Field 2 2/27/2010
28. Wolf And Hound 1/1/2004
29. Potters' Clay 2/27/2010
30. Thora's Song ('Ashtaroth') 1/1/2004
31. Cito Pede Preterit Aetas 2/27/2010
32. The Romance Of Britomarte 2/27/2010
33. Ye Wearie Wayfarer 9/7/2012
34. Wormwood And Nightshade 2/27/2010
35. The Song Of The Surf 2/27/2010
36. The Three Friends 2/27/2010
37. Rippling Water 2/27/2010
38. Verses Inspired By 'My Old Black Pipe' 2/27/2010
39. Laudamus 2/27/2010
40. Sunlight On The Sea 2/27/2010
Best Poem of Adam Lindsay Gordon

An Exile's Farewell

The ocean heaves around us still
With long and measured swell,
The autumn gales our canvas fill,
Our ship rides smooth and well.
The broad Atlantic's bed of foam
Still breaks against our prow;
I shed no tears at quitting home,
Nor will I shed them now!

Against the bulwarks on the poop
I lean, and watch the sun
Behind the red horizon stoop —
His race is nearly run.
Those waves will never quench his light,
O'er which they seem to close,
To-morrow he will rise as bright
As he this morning rose.

How brightly gleams the orb of day
Across ...

Read the full of An Exile's Farewell

Gone

IN Collins Street standeth a statute tall,
A statue tall, on a pillar of stone,
Telling its story, to great and small,
Of the dust reclaimed from the sand waste lone;
Weary and wasted, and worn and wan,
Feeble and faint, and languid and low,
He lay on the desert a dying man;
Who has gone, my friends, where we all must go.

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