[Editor: This poem by Norman L. Beurle was published in The Australasian (Melbourne), 17 February 1900.]
I hear thy voice in whispered song of bird,
In every note of spring’s returning lay,
In every echo that the cliffs have heard
From those white rollers in the gleaming bay;
No chord of Nature’s harp but speaks a word
Of my true love, so dear, so far away.
I envy every swallow on the wing;
I would as swiftly fly away to thee;
I bless the subtle fragrance of the spring
That brings a thought of thy sweet breath to me;
My heart with throbbing energy doth cling
To every sight that wakes thy memory.
I dream of thee till morn’s awakening sigh;
I think of thee amid the toil of day;
And, when the night winds murmur to the sky,
I pray to Him who hath eternal sway;
“Oh, bless my love, Thou mighty Love on High,
My love, so true, so dear, so far away!”
NORMAN L. BEURLE.
The Australasian (Melbourne, Vic.), 17 February 1900, p. 387
lay = song, tune; ballad (may also refer to ballads or narrative poems, as sung by medieval minstrels or bards)
morn = morning
Old words/spelling in the original text: