I hate to think that it must be that, some or any day,
Spring will bring back her gift to me and find me far away.
That I should miss the birds' first note, the cloud of breaking blossom,
Or the downy trees half hidden in the leafy downs' deep bosom,
That spring came knocking at my door and found me not at home,
But gone to that far region where no earthly spring may come.
Surely I then must think of her as one in grief that covers
Her face with her pale hands and weeps, and surely weeps,
Because no more an impatient and lovely tryst she keeps
With me, most passionate and faithful of her lovers.
What! spring once more, and I not there to welcome her again,
When the wind blows through the sycamores most sweetly after rain?
Oh! sad conceit, as well expect the Milky Way, alas,
To miss the trodden glow worm that is missing in the grass.
First published in The Brisbane Courier, 11 January 1930
