Edward George Dyson

(March 1865 - 22 August 1931 / Ballarat / Victoria / Australia)

Edward George Dyson Poems

1. The Crusaders 4/13/2010
2. Breaking It Gently 4/13/2010
3. The Auction 3/21/2012
4. The Girl I Left Behind Me 4/13/2010
5. Sister Ann 4/13/2010
6. Worked-Out Mine 1/1/2004
7. The Single-Handed Team 4/13/2010
8. The Tin-Pot Mill 4/13/2010
9. Of The True Endeavour 4/13/2010
10. Repaired 4/13/2010
11. Since Nellie Came To Live Along The Creek 4/13/2010
12. The Trucker 4/13/2010
13. The Prospectors 4/13/2010
14. The Rescue 4/13/2010
15. Whose Wife 4/13/2010
16. The Deserted Homestead 4/13/2010
17. The Immortal Strain 4/13/2010
18. Marshal Neigh, V.C. 4/13/2010
19. When Tommy Came Marching Home 4/13/2010
20. The Common Men 4/13/2010
21. The Young Lieutenant 4/13/2010
22. Peter Simson's Farm 1/1/2004
23. Jonah’s Luck 4/13/2010
24. Simple Sister Goes To Sydney 4/13/2010
25. The Happy Flatite 4/13/2010
26. Mickey Mollynoo 4/13/2010
27. The Weeds 4/13/2010
28. Quits 4/13/2010
29. Stop-And-See 4/13/2010
30. The Fossicker 4/13/2010
31. The Germ 4/13/2010
32. The Unborn 4/13/2010
33. The Happy Gardeners 4/13/2010
34. The Living Picture 4/13/2010
35. Why Spring Fell Flat 4/13/2010
36. William And Bill 4/13/2010
37. Mud 4/13/2010
38. Wherefore Art Thou Romeo? 4/13/2010
39. To The Theoretical Selector 4/13/2010
40. Waiting For Water 4/13/2010
Best Poem of Edward George Dyson

The Church Bells

The Viennese authorities have melted down
the great bell in St. Stephen's to supply metal
for guns or muntions. Every poor village
has made a similar gift.—Lokal Anzeiger.


The great bell booms across the town,
Reverberant and slow,
And drifting from their houses down
The calm-eyed people go.
Their feet fall on the portal stones
Their fathers' fathers trod;
And still the bell, with reverent tones,
From cottage nooks and purple thrones
Is calling souls to God.

The chapel bells with ardor spake
Above the poplars tall,
And ...

Read the full of The Church Bells

The Old Whim Horse

He's an old grey horse, with his head bowed sadly,
   And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft,
With the off-fore sprung and the hind screwed badly,
   And he bears all over the brands of graft;
And he lifts his head from the grass to wonder
   Why by night and day the whim is still,
Why the silence is, and the stampers' thunder
   Sounds forth no more from the shattered mill.

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