Archive for August 22nd, 2014

Friday, 22 August 2014

Homesick by Dorothy Frances McCrae

I’m sick of fog and yellow gloom,
Of faces strange, and alien eyes,
Your London is a vault, a tomb,
To those born ’neath Australian skies.
Oh, land of gold and burning blue,
I’m crying like a child for you!

The trees are tossing in the park
Against the banked-up amethyst,
At four o’clock it will be dark,
And I a blind man in the mist.
Hark to old London’s smothered roar,
Gruff jailer growling at my door!

Each day I see Fate’s wheel whirl round,
And yet my fortunes are the same,
My hopes are trodden in the ground,
Good luck has never heard my name,
Oh friends, oh home, beyond the seas,
Alone in darkness here I freeze!

The Day is dead: night falls apace;
I reach my hand to draw the blind,
To hide old London’s frowning face,
And then (alas!) I call to mind
The shining ways we used to roam
Those long, light evenings at home.

I hate this fog and yellow gloom,
These days of grey and amethyst;
I want to see the roses bloom,
The smiling fields by sunshine kissed —
Oh land of gold and burning blue!
I’m crying like a child for you!


Date: 1909

By: Dorothy Frances McCrae (1878-1937)