| Walter Murdoch (1874–1970). The Oxford Book of Australasian Verse. 1918. |
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| 19. Whisperings in Wattle-Boughs |
| | | By Adam Lindsay Gordon |
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| OH, gaily sings the bird! and the wattle-boughs are stirred | |
| 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! | |
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| Oh, tell me, father mine, ere the good ship crossed the brine, | 5 |
| 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? | |
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| Oh, tell me, sister dear—parting word and parting tear | |
| Never passed between us: let me bear the blame— | 10 |
| Are you living, girl, or dead? bitter tears since then I’ve shed | |
| For the lips that lisped with mine a mother’s name. | |
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| Oh, tell me, ancient friend, ever ready to defend | |
| In our boyhood, at the base of life’s long hill, | |
| Are you waking yet or sleeping? Have you left this vale of weeping, | 15 |
| Or do you, like your comrade, linger still? | |
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| Oh, whisper, buried love, is there rest and peace above?— | |
| 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. | 20 |
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| All silent—they are dumb—and the breezes go and come | |
| 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. | |
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| Oh, harshly screams the bird, and the wattle-bloom is stirred; | 25 |
| There’s a sullen weird-like whisper in the bough: | |
| ‘Aye, kneel and pray and weep, but HIS BELOVED SLEEP | |
| CAN NEVER BE DISTURBED BY SUCH AS THOU!’ | |
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