Walter Murdoch (1874–1970). The Oxford Book of Australasian Verse. 1918.
By Adam Lindsay Gordon19 . Whisperings in Wattle-Boughs
O
And rustled by the scented breath of Spring;
Oh, the dreary wistful longing! Oh, the faces that are thronging!
Oh, the voices that are vaguely whispering!
On the gangway one mute handgrip we exchanged,
Do you, past the grave, employ, for your stubborn reckless boy,
Those petitions that in life were ne’er estranged?
Never passed between us: let me bear the blame—
Are you living, girl, or dead? bitter tears since then I’ve shed
For the lips that lisped with mine a mother’s name.
In our boyhood, at the base of life’s long hill,
Are you waking yet or sleeping? Have you left this vale of weeping,
Or do you, like your comrade, linger still?
There is little hope or comfort here below;
On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed is strait and cold—
Near the harbour where the sea-tides ebb and flow.
With an apathy that mocks at man’s distress;
Laugh, scoffer, while you may! I could bow me down and pray
For an answer that might stay my bitterness.
There’s a sullen weird-like whisper in the bough:
‘Aye, kneel and pray and weep, but
C