| Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922. | | | | Whisperings in Wattle-boughs | | By Adam Lindsay Gordon (1833–1870) |
| | | O, GAILY sings the bird! and the wattle-boughs are stirr’d | |
| 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! | |
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| O, tell me, father mine, ere the good ship cross’d the brine, | 5 |
| 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? | |
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| O, tell me, sister dear, parting word and parting tear | |
| Never pass’d 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 lisp’d with mine a mother’s name. | |
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| O, 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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| O, 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 straight 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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| O, harshly screams the bird! and the wattle-bloom is stirr’d; | 25 |
| There ’s a sullen, weird-like whisper in the bough: | |
| ‘Aye, kneel, and pray, and weep, but HIS BELOVED SLEEP | |
| CAN NEVER BE DISTURB’D BY SUCH AS THOU!’ | | | | |
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