There’s a lonely stretch of hillocks;
There’s a beach asleep and drear,
There’s a battered broken fort beside the sea.
There are sunken trampled graves;
And a little rotting pier;
And winding paths that wind unceasingly.
There’s a torn and silent valley;
There’s a tiny rivulet
With some blood upon the stones beside its mouth.
There are lines of buried bones;
There’s an unpaid waiting debt;
There’s a sound of gentle sobbing in the South.
January, 1916.
From: http://nzetc.victoria.ac.nz/tm/scholarly/tei-WaiNewZ-c18-1.html
Date: 1916
By: Leon Maxwell Gellert (1892-1977)
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