Robert Crawford

(1868 - 13 January 1930 / Australia)

Robert Crawford Poems

1. The U.S. Air Force 11/14/2015
2. Old-Fashioned Child. 4/21/2010
3. Christian Burial. 4/21/2010
4. Early Summer. 4/21/2010
5. Earth Rune. 4/21/2010
6. Death. 4/21/2010
7. Death. 4/21/2010
8. Deliberation. 4/21/2010
9. Dies Irae. 4/21/2010
10. Entranced. 4/21/2010
11. Cheery Old Age. 4/21/2010
12. Business And Pleasure. 4/21/2010
13. Work. 4/21/2010
14. Dream-Death 1/1/2004
15. Echo. 4/21/2010
16. Cleopatra. 4/21/2010
17. Counsel In Sorrow. 4/21/2010
18. Womanhood. 4/21/2010
19. Death. 4/21/2010
20. Experience. 4/21/2010
21. By The Sea. 4/21/2010
22. Evening. 4/21/2010
23. Ever And Only. 4/21/2010
24. Father And Lover. 4/21/2010
25. Her Face. 4/21/2010
26. Her Grave. 4/21/2010
27. Honey-Suckles. 4/21/2010
28. On Marriage. 4/21/2010
29. On Olympus. 4/21/2010
30. Noonday Hills. 4/21/2010
31. Post Mortem. 4/21/2010
32. Quatrain. 4/21/2010
33. Quiet Joy. 4/21/2010
34. Song #2. 4/21/2010
35. Madrigal #1. 4/21/2010
36. To A Baby. 4/21/2010
37. This Life. 4/21/2010
38. Thought's Austerity. 4/21/2010
39. Thought's Garden. 4/21/2010
40. The Flower. 4/21/2010
Best Poem of Robert Crawford

A Song Of The Sea.

Here within the half-light 'tween the night and day
Upon the sands I lie, with thoughts that idly stirr'd
Seem, as in a dream, with life and death to play,
As o'er the sea there flits a pale white bird.
In my heart I hear it, the murmur of the sea,
Ah! and memories of other lives are stirr'd,
As somewise there came a mystic voice to me
As o'er the sea there flits a pale white bird.
Who but knows that in me is a ghost that hears
A voice it heard of old in the primeval word —
A memory so dim, it like a dream appears
As o'er the sea there flits a pale white bird!

Read the full of A Song Of The Sea.

For Lillian

She was so dear, so fair. Her memory stays,
Even her dying robs me not of this,
That I have walked with her in mortal ways
Whose tender beauty now immortal is.
There are sweet flowers that bloom in ways forlorn
And sad sweet eyes whose beauty is a flower
Blown in the night to which there is no morn,
Dream-born and dying in its dewy bower;
And she was such a flower, her sweet eyes such;

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