Thora’s Song (‘Ashtaroth’)

Adam Lindsay Gordon

We severed in Autumn early,

Ere the earth was torn by the plough;

The wheat and the oats and the barley

Are ripe for the harvest now.

We sundered one misty morning

Ere the hills were dimmed by the rain;

Through the flowers those hills adorning —

Thou comest not back again.

My heart is heavy and weary

With the weight of a weary soul;

The mid-day glare grows dreary,

And dreary the midnight scroll.

The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle,

‘Neath the load of their golden grain;

I sigh for a mate more fickle —

Thou comest not back again.

The warm sun riseth and setteth,

The night bringeth moistening dew,

But the soul that longeth forgetteth

The warmth and the moisture too.

In the hot sun rising and setting

There is naught save feverish pain;

There are tears in the night-dews wetting —

Thou comest not back again.

Thy voice in my ear still mingles

With the voices of whispering trees,

Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles

At each kiss of the summer breeze.

While dreams of the past are thronging

For substance of shades in vain,

I am waiting, watching and longing —

Thou comest not back again.

Waiting and watching ever,

Longing and lingering yet;

Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver,

Winds murmur and waters fret.

No answer they bring, no greeting,

No speech, save that sad refrain,

Nor voice, save an echo repeating —

He cometh not back again.