Recently in Space Category

Over the Edge of the World by Mabel Forrest

| No TrackBacks
Over the edge of the world
The little stars dance in a silver ring,
And twitch at the beard of the Comet King,
Till he stamps in his rage and pain,
   Then the moon will laugh 
   Till it splits in half.
And becomes a crescent again. 

Over the edge of the world,
How the big bear rolls in the blue and grunts
When the meteors shoot or Orion hunts, 
A faithful watch the Dog Star keeps
   Against theft or loss
   Of the Southern Cross,
While the beautiful Venus sleeps.   

Over the edge of the world,
I would like to take a big jump some day, 
To trundle my hoop through the Milky Way,  
Right into the heart of the sun,
   From his burning bars  
   Snatch the cool, white stars, 
And cuddle them everyone.  

First published in The Australasian, 8 June 1907

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Meditation by Alex Scott

| No TrackBacks
When steerin' weans are sleeping sound,
   And night is getting late;
I smoke my pipe, and dauner round,
   And lean across my gate.

I hear the rumble far awa'
   Of trains and tramway cars;
I hardly notice them at a',
   But stand and watch the stars.

For stars, to me, aye seem to say,
   "What's a' your fash and fret?
You never lacked three meals a day,
   Nor died in winter yet."

If folk exist in distant stars,
   As clever bodies state;
I wonder if some man in Mars,
   Is leaning o'er his gate.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 21 June 1930

Author: nothing is known about the author of this poem.

Author reference sites: Austlit

The Earth by Kodak (Ernest O'Ferrall)

| No TrackBacks
The patient Earth spins on among the stars
Like an old lady in the Halls of Space,
Whose candles -- set on Heaven's window bars --
Wonder and wink at her excessive pace.

She mends Time's garments with her age-long thread,
And patches Knowledge with forgotten lore
Dropped on the threshold by the ones who've fled
Out of this life through the grave's narrow door.

On, on she spins with dignity and grace,
Crushing relentlessly our faintest hopes,
Whilst grave astronomers examine Space
For explanations, with long telescopes.

The Wind at intervals on air will croon
For her to spin to, but she goes on still,
When all is silent and the clown-faced Moon
Gazes and gapes above a sleeping hill.

I've often wondered why she never tires,
And why her candles -- high on Heaven's bars --
Don't go right out like ordinary fires,
Or cheap gas-stoves -- or threepenny cigars.

First published in The Bulletin, 18 March 1909

Author: Ernest Francis O'Ferrall (1881-1925) was born in Melbourne and was educated at the Christian Brothers' College in East Melbourne.  After publishing his stories and poems in such magazines as The Bulletin, The Gadfly, and Steele Rudd's Magazine, he joined the full-time staff of The Bulletin, in Sydney, in 1907. He published much light verse under his own name, and that of "Kodak" as well as 35 short stories in the Lone Hand.  In 1922 O'Ferrall moved to Smith's Weekly, but the work was arduous and he wasn't happy.  He died of tuberculosis in Sydney on 1925.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

About this Archive

This page is an archive of recent entries in the Space category.

Sorrow is the previous category.

Spiritual Life is the next category.

Find recent content on the main index or look in the archives to find all content.


Powered by Movable Type 4.23-en