Explore "The Prospectors" by Edward Dyson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When the white sun scorches the fair, green land in / the rage of his fierce desires, / Or looms blood red on the Western hills, through / the smoke of their waning fires; / When the winds at war strew the mountain side / with limbs of the mangled trees, / Or the flood tides wheel in the valleys low, or sweep / to the distant seas, / We are leading back, and the faintest track that we / leave in the desert wild / Or we blaze for fear through the forest drear will be / tramped by the settler's child.
We have turned our backs on the City's joys, on the / glare of its myriad lights, / On the measured peace of its bloodless days, and the / strife of its shining nights; / We have fled the pubs in the dull bush towns and / the furthermost shanty bars, / And have camped away at the edge of space, or aloft / by the brooding stars. / We have stirred the world as our dishes swirled and / we drummed on the matted gold, / And from East and West we beguile their best with / a wonderful tale oft-told.