We severed in Autumn early, <br />Ere the earth was torn by the plough; <br />The wheat and the oats and the barley <br />Are ripe for the harvest now. <br />We sunder'd one misty morning <br />Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain; <br />Through the flowers those hills adorning -- <br />Thou comest not back again. <br /> <br />My heart is heavy and weary <br />With the weight of a weary soul; <br />The mid-day glare grows dreary, <br />And dreary the midnight scroll. <br />The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle, <br />'Neath the load of their golden grain; <br />I sigh for a mate more fickle -- <br />Thou comest not back again. <br /> <br />The warm sun riseth and setteth, <br />The night bringeth moistening dew, <br />But the soul that longeth forgetteth <br />The warmth and the moisture too. <br />In the hot sun rising and setting <br />There is naught save feverish pain; <br />There are tears in the night-dews wetting -- <br />Thou comest not back again. <br /> <br />Thy voice in my ear still mingles <br />With the voices of whisp'ring trees, <br />Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles <br />At each kiss of the summer breeze. <br />While dreams of the past are thronging <br />For substance of shades in vain, <br />I am waiting, watching and longing -- <br />Thou comest not back again. <br /> <br />Waiting and watching ever, <br />Longing and lingering yet; <br />Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver, <br />Winds murmur and waters fret. <br />No answer they bring, no greeting, <br />No speech, save that sad refrain, <br />Nor voice, save an echo repeating -- <br />He cometh not back again.<br /><br />Adam Lindsay Gordon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thora-s-song-ashtaroth/
