| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895. |
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| Beneath the Wattle Boughs |
| | | Frances Tyrrell Gill |
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| THE WATTLES were sweet with September’s rain, | |
| We drank in their breath and the breath of the spring: | |
| “Our pulses are strong with the tide of life,” | |
| I said, “and one year is so swift a thing!” | |
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| The land all around was yellow with bloom, | 5 |
| The birds in the branches sang joyous and shrill, | |
| The blue range rose ’gainst the blue of the sky, | |
| Yet she sighed, “But death may be stronger still!” | |
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| Then I reached and gathered a blossomy bough, | |
| And divided its clustering sprays in twain, | 10 |
| “As a token for each” (I closed one in her hand) | |
| “Till we come to the end of the year again!” | |
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| Then the years sped on, strung high with life; | |
| And laughter and gold were the gifts they gave, | |
| Till I chanced one day on some pale dead flowers, | 15 |
| And spake, shaking and white, “One more gift I crave.” | |
| “Nay,” a shadow voice in the air replied, | |
| “’Neath the blossoming wattles you ’ll find a grave!” | |
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