Then sorrowfully she pressed her small, hot head
Close to her mother's heart, weary of play.
They put her reed shoes quietly away,
And watched her toss upon her fever bed.
Lone stayed the red clay beads she longed to thread,
The swing her father made untouched that day.
Oh, the blue Nile as grief itself was grey
When terribly they whispered, "She is dead."
Poor mother, weeping for your little one,
Long, long -- so long ago! Osiris true
With prayers propitiating, so that she
Raised up again might be, here 'neath this sun
Be sure we view your child with reverence due
Where she, still trusting, waits . . . how sorrowfully!
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 20 September 1930
