The Open Sea
Dorothea Mackellar From my window I can see, Where the sandhills dip, One far glimpse of open sea. Just a slender slip Curving like a crescent moon— Yet a greater prize Than the harbour...
View ArticleMy Country
Dorothea Mackellar My Country The love of field and coppice Of green and shaded lanes, Of ordered woods and gardens Is running in your veins. Strong love of grey-blue distance, Brown streams and soft,...
View ArticleIn a Southern Garden
Dorothea Mackellar WHEN the tall bamboos are clicking to the restless little breeze, And bats begin their jerky skimming flight, And the creamy scented blossoms of the dark pittosporum trees,read more
View ArticleFire
Dorothea Mackellar This life that we call our own Is neither strong nor free; A flame in the wind of death, It trembles ceaselessly. And this all we can do To use our little light Before, in the...
View ArticleBurning Off
Dorothea Mackellar They're burning off at the Rampadells, The tawny flames uprise, With greedy licking around the trees; The fierce breath sears our eyes. From cores already grown furnace-hot -read more
View ArticleBurning Off
Dorothea Mackellar They're burning off at the Rampadells, The tawny flames uprise, With greedy licking around the trees; The fierce breath sears our eyes. From cores already grown furnace-hot -read more
View ArticleThe Open Sea
Dorothea Mackellar From my window I can see, Where the sandhills dip, One far glimpse of open sea. Just a slender slip Curving like a crescent moon— Yet a greater prize Than the harbour...
View ArticleMy Country
Dorothea Mackellar My Country The love of field and coppice Of green and shaded lanes, Of ordered woods and gardens Is running in your veins. Strong love of grey-blue distance, Brown streams and soft,...
View ArticleIn a Southern Garden
Dorothea Mackellar WHEN the tall bamboos are clicking to the restless little breeze, And bats begin their jerky skimming flight, And the creamy scented blossoms of the dark pittosporum trees,read more
View ArticleFire
Dorothea Mackellar This life that we call our own Is neither strong nor free; A flame in the wind of death, It trembles ceaselessly. And this all we can do To use our little light Before, in the...
View Article
