Shingle-Short and Other Verses/Gathering Peaches
Gathering Peaches.
Gathering Peaches.
Father is out to his tea, and I’ve stolen an hour at last
To come and gather the wharé peaches, that fall in the wind so fast:
—The wild little wharé peaches, that pucker your mouth so sore,
By the wharé that won’t be the wharé ever to me any more!
..This was the place that he lived in. In he came, at at this door,
Touch’d you, like this....O happy window!....and wall.... and floor!
Here, he must have stood, often: he will have sat, like this....
And his head will have lain—O pillow! ’tisn’t yourself I kiss.
....Just the newspaper-pictures, pasted up on the wall;
Stretcher, and old camp-oven, and ricketty stool— that’s all!
..Cold: silent: and empty....But, hasn’t he left it clean?—
Even the wharé’s better, Phil, for being where you have been.
A poor little place; but you lived here—here you sat at your ease,
Shut the door and were private, with only yourself to please,
King, and alone: as in my heart you were King and alone.
But....the wharé and I weren’t wanted; and our only owner’s gone.
Philip, why did you leave us? Philip! Philip! O
Philip! If it could all go back, even to a week ago—
When, with you at the shed still, the worst hadn’t all come true!
When you hadn’t gone to better yourself—and my best hadn’t gone with you!
Nothing to blame you for—Oh, no, no! from beginning to end,
You were only easy, and kind—and a bit my friend.
Maybe you’re promised to some one, at Home there, over the sea....
..Kiss nor promise between us, and yet—I am not free!
Oh, I can’t help it! I can’t care whether it’s wrong or right!—
Thinking of you I wake each morning, and fall asleep each night.
There’s no comfort and no sense in being a hypocrite—
You didn’t love me, but I love you! And I’m proud of myself for it!
Gone! and for good.... Why not, pray? Youth and courage, and push,
Where was his chance, stagnating here with us in the Bush?
No—You were born for battle, boy! I wouldn’t have had you bide.
I wouldn’t stint you of glory, nor yet myself of pride!
O you faces of famous men, his hands hung here on the wall,
Only a shepherd was he? Ay, but mate to you all!
Go! yes, rise to your own height, Philip—high as ever you can—
But if you never get on one inch, I shall have loved a Man!
Straight: spirited: clean: look’d up at women, and down on lies:
Cool, at a hurry: stuck to things: and took command with his eyes....
Here! let’s get to the peaches—they’ll bottle and serve, in time;
But, what can you do with an unsunn’d love, and a hope pluck’d ere its prime?
Do? Well, anyway, bottle ’em up! Whether for future food,
Who’s to know? But it may be so,—for it’s got to do me good!
It’s just not going to cripple or break me—it shan’t! it’s to make me strong;
For it ’ud be wronging you, Phil, to let it do me a wrong.
Wrong? What, Philip? That fixt my heart, and tuned my whole life right?
Cripple me? Break? My Philip? that brought the sun into sight?
Vigorous always, and helpful, and full of resolute hope—
Would I make you a reason to grumble and pine and mope?
Not I! You’ll never know it, or care to, Philip—but all the same,
Because you’re plucky, because you’re you, I’ll be plucky and play the game.
It’s tough; ay! and it will be tough, but, even at the start, it pays—
Haven’t I got the thought of you for company all my days?
And everything in the width of this world that’s brave and honest and true,
Don’t I love it dearer than ever, Philip, through loving you?
And, maybe ’tisn’t the love one gets, so much as the love one gives,
That settles whether one’s something or nothing, whether one loafs or lives?
....Finish’d!—Look at the sunset, flaming there on the peak!
And the falling leaves are shining and pretty, and so is the singing creek—
For I’m not to go lumping through the world, with my head all bow’d and bent,
No! but properly taking notice—that is the way he went.
....Washing, mending, and cleaning: cooking the porridge and chops—
Thank God that the work is plenty, and heavy, and never stops!
Dad and the boys to work for, and always God above—
Only....it’s awfully lonely, Philip....my love! my love!....
Oh, no, no, I mustn’t! I’ve got to live my life,
Haven’t I? I’ve to be myself, even if I’m not your wife.
But God in His mercy seal my heart, and keep it loyal and stout,
To hold the love of you there for ever—never to let you out!
The blue is pass’d to purple, and there’s the full moon come.
The boys ’ll be finish’d milking, and it’s high time I was home.
Well! the peaches are all in, now; there’s two crops in to-day:
One that’ll last the winter; one for ever and aye!