Ebbs and flows the restless river In the city street Where the great nerve centres quiver, Where the pulses beat.…
George Essex Evans was an English-born Australian poet, journalist, playwright and government official. He served as District Registrar of births, deaths and marriages first for Gympie and then, later on, for the city of Toowoomba, a place now known as the “Garden City” due to the existence of its many public parks and gardens. He came into the world in the Regents Park district of London on the 18th June 1863 into comfortable family circumstances. His father was a QC and also a Member of Parliament who, unfortunately, died when George was an infant. His widow was left well provided for though and she took her family back to her Welsh roots in Haverfordwest, Pembrokeshire where the boy attended the local grammar school before going on to St. James on the island of Jersey in 1873. He was physically strong and a more than capable athlete but a hearing problem would prove to be an impediment to his joining the Army, which was a career path that he had hoped to follow. At the age of 17 he migrated to Queensland in the company of a brother and two sisters. The two brothers bought a parcel of land, intending to become farmers in southern Queensland. This ambition was thwarted though when George was hurt in a riding accident and, for a short time at least, he moved into teaching instead. Evans took up writing for The Queenslander as their agricultural editor and wrote travel pieces for the Australian government. In 1899 he wed Blanche Hopkins in a low-key ceremony, as befitting the quiet, private character that he had become. They settled into a newly-built property in the Toowoomba area and Evans later wrote a poem of that name. In 1903 he was instrumental in setting up to promote Australian arts, culture, industry and science but this was a short-lived organisation, lasting only 8 years. His knowledge of poetry was legendary, with a remarkable ability to quote pieces of Australian, English and American poetry from memory a notable feature. He wrote many poems himself with his first collection coming out in 1891 under the title Another collection in 1898 was called the title poem being a much-praised lyrical piece of great length. During his lifetime he was a popular poet and remained so after his death. Much of his work was of a romantic, wistful nature, a good example being the one in praise of his adopted home. Here is the poem Toowoomba: Evans was famous for his patriotic odes and bush ballads such as He won a prize of 50 guineas in 1901 for which was a favourite of Alfred Deakin who was Prime Minister at the time. This poem was, however, criticised by literary critics and called “trite”. He was, however, considered to be a useful addition to the Chief Secretary”s department of Queensland”s State Government and was engaged to promote the State in Paris during May 1908. His literary output was considerable, numbering over 200 published poems, in addition to many short stories and essays that often appeared in newspapers. George Essex Evans died on the 10th November 1909 at the age of only 46, following a gall bladder operation that led to fatal complications.
George Essex Evans şiirleri
Weary was I of Earth. My body lay, Its fires turned down and slaked to faintest heat. My soul went out into the night away Where wing hath never beat.…
An amphitheatre of purple hills And emerald slopes where nestling villas gleam, Flooded with golden light that crowns and fills Height, vale, and stream.…
It was the middle of the drought; the ground was hot and bare, You might search for grass with a microscope, but nary grass was there; The hay was done, the cornstalks gone, the tr…
IN the greyness of the dawning we have seen the pilot-star, In the whisper of the morning we have heard the years afar. Shall we sleep and let them be When they call to you and me?…
No white cloud sails the lonely sky, Thro’ the gaunt trees no breezes sigh, Thro’ the lush grass no fall of feet; No song of bird in all the land,…
A sun-flash on his mounting wing, A wild note soaring high— The lark is up, the minstrel king, The poet of the sky.…
O for a vision of the perfect light To shame the splendour of the morning star! O for a breath from out the Infinite Where the great heart of Being throbs afar!…
Not as the songs of other lands Her song shall be,…
Like weary sea-birds spent with flight And faltering, The slow hours beat across the night On leaden wing.…
Nature feels the touch of noon; Not a rustle stirs the grass; Not a shadow flecks the sky, Save the brown hawk hovering nigh;…
The willows sweep the water, and the rushes lean a-down, And I see the river shining far away, With a snowy cloud above it, floating softly, like a crown, And the water-hen and wil…
Now that the gods are dead—where shall we find us a god? Myths of the Greek Olympus have sunk in the surge of Time; And Jehovah, the God of Wrath, who stayed the sun at His nod; An…
Earth's mightiest isle. She stands alone. The wide seas wash around Her throne, Crowned by the red sun as his own. This is the last of all the lands…
There fell on me a dream when days were gray, And Hope had left me there to grope alone Amid the silence of an unknown way Vaulted with night and paved with barren stone,…
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