Hugh Raymond McCrae was an Australian writer.
McCrae was born in Melbourne, the son of the Australian author George Gordon McCrae. He was originally articled to an architect, but later took upon writing and acting, settling eventually in Sydney and Camden. His works are notable for a sense of lightness and delicacy, and he had produced, in addition to a volume of memoirs, a considerable body of verse, and a light operetta, an edition of his grandmother's journal, and a volume of prose pieces.
He wrote a fantasy play The Ship of Heaven which was produced by the Independent Theatre in 1933, for which Alfred Hill composed and conducted the music.
McCrae was well... more »
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Hugh McCrae Poems
Song of the Rain
Night, and the yellow pleasure of candle-light.... old brown books and the kind, fine face of the clock fogged in the veils of the fire - it's cuddling tock.
The bleak faced Winter, with his braggart winds (Coiled to his scrawny throat in tattered black), Posts down the highway of his late domain, His spurs like leeches in his bleeding hack.
SHE looked on me with sadder eyes than Death, And, moving through the large, autumnal trees, Failed like a phantom on the bitter breath Of midnight; and the unillumined seas
A Bridal Song
SHE is more sparkling beautiful Than dawn-light seen thro’ tears The weeping worlds of Paradise Shed down upon the spheres. Her eyes a ...
These spotted trousers, now too short, Were once some verses smoothly wrought, The worn-out bluchers on my feet Twin sonnets to My Lady Sweet,
Comments about Hugh 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)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Song of the Rain
and the yellow pleasure of candle-light....
old brown books and the kind, fine face of the clock
fogged in the veils of the fire - it's cuddling tock.
greening her eyes on the flame-litten mat;
wickedly, wakeful she yawns at the rain
bending the roses over the pane,
and a bird in my heart begins to sing
over and over the same sweet thing--
Safe in the house with my boyhood's love
and our children asleep in the attic above.