Thomas William Heney

Absence

Ah, happy air that, rough or soft,
 May kiss that face and stay;
And happy beams that from above
 May choose to her their way;
And happy flowers that now and then
 Touch lips more sweet than they!

But it were not so blest to be
 Or light or air or rose;
Those dainty fingers tear and toss
 The bloom that in them glows;
And come or go, both wind and ray
 She heeds not, if she knows.

But if I come thy choice should be
 Either to love or not —
For if I might I would not kiss
 And then be all forgot;
And it were best thy love to lose
 If love self-scorn begot.

A Riverina Road

Now while so many turn with love and longing
 To wan lands lying in the grey North Sea,
To thee we turn, hearts, mem'ries, all belonging,
 Dear land of ours, to thee.

West, ever west, with the strong sunshine marching
 Beyond the mountains, far from this soft coast,
Until we almost see the great plains arching,
 In endless mirage lost.

A land of camps where seldom is sojourning,
 Where men like the dim fathers of our race,
Halt for a time, and next day, unreturning,
 Fare ever on apace.

Last night how many a leaping blaze affrighted
 The wailing birds of passage in their file;
And dawn sees ashes dead and embers whited
 Where men had dwelt awhile.

The sun may burn, the mirage shift and vanish
 And fade and glare by turns along the sky;
The haze of heat may all the distance banish
 To the uncaring eye.

By speech, or tongue of bird or brute, unbroken
 Silence may brood upon the lifeless plain,
Nor any sign, far off or near, betoken
 Man in this vast domain.

Though tender grace the landscape lacks, too spacious,
 Impassive, silent, lonely, to be fair,
Their kindness swiftly comes more soft and gracious,
 Who live or tarry there.

All that he has, in camp or homestead, proffers
 To stranger guest at once a stranger host,
Proudest to see accepted what he offers,
 Given without a boast.

Pass, if you can, the drover's cattle stringing
 Along the miles of the wide travelled road,
Without a challenge through the hot dust ringing,
 Kind though abrupt the mode.

A cloud of dust where polish'd wheels are flashing
 Passes along, and in it rolls the mail.
Comes from the box as on the coach goes dashing
 The lonely driver's hail.

Or in the track a station youngster mounted
 Sits in his saddle smoking for a "spell",
Rides a while onward; then, his news recounted,
 Parts with a brief farewell.

To-day these plains may seem a face defiant,
 Turn'd to a mortal foe, yet scorning fear;
As when, with heaven at war, an Earth-born giant
 Saw the Olympian near.

Come yet again! No child's fair face is sweeter
 With young delight than this cool blooming land,
Silent no more, for songs than wings are fleeter,
 No blaze, but sunshine bland.

Thus in her likeness that strange nature moulding
 Makes man as moody, sad and savage too;
Yet in his heart, like her, a passion holding,
 Unselfish, kind and true.

Therefore, while many turn with love and longing
 To wan lands lying on the grey North Sea,
To-day possessed by other mem'ries thronging
 We turn, wild West, to thee!

23rd December, 1891.