OH, gaily sings the bird! and the wattle-boughs are stirred <br /> And rustled by the scented breath of Spring; <br />Oh, the dreary wistful longing! Oh, the faces that are thronging! <br /> Oh, the voices that are vaguely whispering! <br /> <br />Oh, tell me, father mine, ere the good ship crossed the brine, <br /> On the gangway one mute handgrip we exchanged, <br />Do you, past the grave, employ, for your stubborn reckless boy, <br /> Those petitions that in life were ne’er estranged? <br /> <br />Oh, tell me, sister dear—parting word and parting tear <br /> Never passed between us: let me bear the blame— <br />Are you living, girl, or dead? bitter tears since then I’ve shed <br /> For the lips that lisped with mine a mother’s name. <br /> <br />Oh, tell me, ancient friend, ever ready to defend <br /> In our boyhood, at the base of life’s long hill, <br />Are you waking yet or sleeping? Have you left this vale of weeping, <br /> Or do you, like your comrade, linger still? <br /> <br />Oh, whisper, buried love, is there rest and peace above?— <br /> There is little hope or comfort here below; <br />On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed is strait and cold— <br /> Near the harbour where the sea-tides ebb and flow. <br /> <br />All silent—they are dumb—and the breezes go and come <br /> With an apathy that mocks at man’s distress; <br />Laugh, scoffer, while you may! I could bow me down and pray <br /> For an answer that might stay my bitterness. <br /> <br />Oh, harshly screams the bird, and the wattle-bloom is stirred; <br /> There’s a sullen weird-like whisper in the bough: <br />‘Aye, kneel and pray and weep, but HIS BELOVED SLEEP <br /> CAN NEVER BE DISTURBED BY SUCH AS THOU!’ <br /><br /><br />Adam Lindsay Gordon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/whispering-in-wattle-boughs/
