We severed in Autumn early,
Ere the earth was torn by the plough;
The wheat and the oats and the
Are ripe for the harvest now.
We sunder'd one misty
Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain;
Through the flowers those hills adorning —Thou comest not back again.
My heart is heavy and
With the weight of a weary soul;
The mid-day glare grows dreary,
And dreary the midnight scroll.
The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle,'Neath the load of their golden grain;
I sigh for a mate more fickle —Thou comest not back again.
The warm sun riseth and setteth,
The night bringeth moistening dew,
But the soul that longeth
The warmth and the moisture too.
In the hot sun rising and
There is naught save feverish pain;
There are tears in the night-dews wetting —Thou comest not back again.
Thy voice in my ear still
With the voices of whisp'ring trees,
Thy kiss on my cheek still
At each kiss of the summer breeze.
While dreams of the past are
For substance of shades in vain,
I am waiting, watching and longing —Thou comest not back again.
Waiting and watching ever,
Longing and lingering yet;
Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver,
Winds murmur and waters fret.
No answer they bring, no greeting,
No speech, save that sad refrain,
Nor voice, save an echo repeating —He cometh not back again.
Thora's Song was first printed in 'The Australasian' under the title of 'Frusta'
