Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
Whisperings in Wattle-boughsAdam Lindsay Gordon (18331870)
O,
And rustled by the scented breath of spring;
O, the dreary wistful longing! O, the faces that are thronging!
O, the voices that are vaguely whispering!
On the gangway one mute hand-grip we exchang’d,
Do you, past the grave, employ, for your stubborn, reckless boy,
Those petitions that in life were ne’er estrang’d?
Never pass’d between us;—let me bear the blame,
Are you living, girl, or dead? bitter tears since then I’ve shed
For the lips that lisp’d 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 straight 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