To a Young Soldier
By Marjorie Quinn
A Wildwood
sweetness in the air
On winter days
when wattle blows,
And sad the heart
that grieves for one
Who sleeps where
never wattle grows.
Green are the
gullies; here the trail
Winds up, that
knew his happy tread;
Oh gay with gold
the bush, while he
Lies silent, with
the peerless dead.
Ah, weep for
him! Yet to all grief
A mead of ease the
years disclose;
So he, and all his
like shall be
Revered, wherever
wattle grows.
No comments:
Post a Comment