Vonda Stanley's collection of early Australian bush poems




Had he never been born he was mine:

Since he was born he never was mine:

Only the dream is our own

Where the world called him there he went;

When the war called him, there he bent,

Now he is dead


He was I; bone of my bone,

Flesh of my flesh, in truth;

For his plenty I gave my own,

His drouth was my drouth.


When he laughed I was glad,

In his strength forgot I was weak,

In his joy forgot I was sad

Now there is nothing to ask or to seek;

He is dead.


I am the ball the marksman sent,

Missing the end and falling spent;

I am the arrow, sighted fair

That failed, and finds not anywhere.

He who was I is dead.


Dame Mary Gilmore

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