[Editor: This poem by Philip Durham Lorimer was published in Songs and Verses by Philip Durham Lorimer: An Australian Bush Poet, 1901.]
I’m robed in the garments of song,
As I search for my love in the bowers ;
I know she’ll be true to her promise,
As the Rainbow is true to the showers !
She is waiting for me on the fell,
Where the moss softly yields to her feet ;
Tis the Springtime and I am her lover,
And glad in the moment we meet.
With the bud that is op’ning to bloom,
She is waiting for light to arise ;
With prelude of June in her blossoms
That follow those violets — her eyes !
She’ll be here when the flame-birds awake
With the day that is coming along ;
With a veil of wild roses she’ll welcome
Each note of my heart-uttered song.
She’ll be here when the valleys are calm,
When the winds are at peace and at rest ;
When the water-bird turns to the shelter
Lined with down from its beautiful breast.
She’ll be kind, for her voice will be full
Of the love she is bearing to all,
And the throb of her heart will be sweet
As the bird to its mate in its call.
She’ll be here when the peach is in bloom,
When the almond trees scatter their wealth
On earth that will bear all their blossoms,
Like cheeks that are flushed with their health ;
She’ll awaken the vines with her touch,
And with song fill the forest’s unrest,
Till the sweet streaming gush of her laughter
Is the joy of each innocent breast.
I will wait for her here on the fell,
In my holiday’s happy repose,
And will sing for my love in a whisper
’Mong the rocks where the Waratah grows.
I will turn my glad heart to the hill,
For the bleat of the lambs in their mirth
Will arise when her footsteps are coming
On the beautiful face of the earth.
There’s a pale streak of dawn in the East,
And I sigh for its changing to gold,
For fondly I love the light leaping
Into day with its moments untold ;
For, my love may be coming to me
In those rays that are bright as her song.
I’m weary — I’m weary of waiting
For the Spring that is coming along !
E. A. Petherick (editor). Songs and Verses by Philip Durham Lorimer: An Australian Bush Poet, William Clowes and Sons, London, 1901, pages 142-144
fell = a high barren field, upland moor, hill, or mountain (not to be confused with other meanings of “fell”: to fall or bring down; hide, pelt or skin; bad, cruel, destructive, fierce or sinister, as in “one fell swoop”)