George Gordon McCrae
George Gordon McCrae was an Australian poet.
McCrae was born in Leith, Scotland; his father was Andrew Murison McCrae, a writer; his mother was Georgiana McCrae, a painter. George attended a preparatory school in London, and later received lessons from his mother. Georgiana and her four sons emigrated to Melbourne in 1841 following her husband who emigrated in 1839.
After a few years as a surveyor, McCrae joined the Victorian Government service, eventually becoming Deputy Registrar-General, and also a prominent figure in literary circles. Most of his leisure time was spent in writing. His first published work was Two Old Men's ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
George Gordon McCrae Poems
The Silence of the Bush
There’s that in our lone Bush, I know not what, Which ’genders silence; I’ve all that to learn. Here, there and everywhere, to loose the knot
L'envoi from Balladeadro
See where the allied armies camped, Where plumed and painted dancers tramped-- 'Tis still the same, the same wild scene, As though the ploughshare ne'er had been.
Mamba: (The Bright Eyed) An Aboriginal R...
Canto I. XXVIII.
A LANE of elms in June;—the air Of eve is cool and calm and sweet. See! straying here a youthful pair, With sad and slowly moving feet,
Life’s a Cigar
‘Life’s a cigar’: the wasting body glows; The head turns white as Kosciusko’s snows; And, with the last soul-fragrance still in air,
Morning at Sea in the Tropics
NIGHT waned and wasted, and the fading stars Died out like lamps that long survived a feast, And the moon, pale with watching, sank to rest Behind the cloud-piled ramparts of the main.
Comments about George Gordon McCrae
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
The Silence of the Bush
There’s that in our lone Bush, I know not what,
Which ’genders silence; I’ve all that to learn.
Here, there and everywhere, to loose the knot
That binds the sheaf-band of the taciturn;
It may be where it freezes; where ’tis hot,
Or streams lie silent in the nymph’s cool urn;
In forest depths, or where the lone plain stretches
Sans other roof than sky, o’er heat-worn wretches.
Or ’mid the gully’s fern and sassafras,
Where all is cool green glooms and early dusk,
With silvern foliage in delicious mass
As, sunwards, feel their way the spires of musk;