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Waiting

Edward S. Sorenson

She stands alone by the garden gate,
    Her tresses swayed as the wind-imp wills,
As the wine-tint fades where the sun rldes late,
    And the cows are calling from far-off hills.

Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are wet.
    For a drover left with the dawning light;
She watched him go, and she watches yet,
    Though 'yond the ranges he camps to-night.

In her ears still jingle the hobble-chains,
    Tho' the pack-horse now by the trackside rests;
The hoofs still beat on the rain-wet plains,
    To the laboured swell of her waiting breasts.

Through wasted years that were heavy so
    With doubt and want of a loving word,
She sees him come, and she sees him go
    With weary waits, and with hopes deferr'd.

She thinks again of the little while,
    The last sweet week that he tarried near,
When she had striven by look and smile
    To let him know that she held him dear.

She woo'd the voice that she soon would miss,
    She tried by all that a maid might do;
Her lips athirst for a strong man's kiss,
    Her heart athrob in its hunger, too.

But he rode away as oft bushmen ride,
    With a passion strong and yet unconfessed,
To sleep long nights with a dreamland bride,
    On the star-lit beds of the wilds out west.

And knowing not, in that world apart,
    A stolen ribbon the exile thrills,
She stands alone with a breaking heart,
    As the cows are calling from far-off hills.

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