There is no day
When thou’rt away,
No hour of these so fraught with pain.
So full of gloom,
But learns to bloom,
Remembering thou wilt come again.
Oh! had’st thou heard
How every bird
Upon his bough has fallen mute,
Nor can rejoice
Till thy sweet voice
Shall tune for him his silver flute.
And every star
Hangs pale and far,
And fears to face the sombre skies,
Till like a sign,
To bid them shine,
Shall come the radiance of thine eyes.
But I can wait.
Though thou art late,
Because my heart is knit to thine;
And neither days
Nor severed ways
Can make thee more or less than mine.
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, page 32