Poem: What the Heart of the Poet Said to the "Bulletin" by Joseph Furphy

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Tell me not in future numbers
   That our thought becomes inane,
That our metre halts and lumbers
   When the Wattle blooms again.

Lies of great men all remind us
   We can challenge and restrain
Such attempts to bluff and blind us
   When the Wattle blooms again.

Therefore take our gage of battle!
   Freedom asserts her reign:
We are not dumb, driven cattle
   When the Wattle blooms again.

Doubtless ANSWERS, weekly, daily,
   Adding to his heap of slain,
Feels a jar, when Nature gaily
   Bids the Wattle bloom again.

Nocent censor! time thou learnest
   All this contract may contain --
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
   But the Wattle blooms again.

Time may change this learned jernal
   From religious to profane,
But a rhythmic law eternal
   Makes the Wattle bloom again.

Trust no Flossie, howe'er pleasant,
   Sweeps are treacherous, totes are vain;
Banks and scrip are evanescent,
   But the Wattle blooms again.

Cultivate no fair ideal;
   Own no country-seat in Spain;
All these things must go to Sheol,
   Whil'st the Wattle blooms again.

Czar, and Pope and Dei Gratia
   Pass like phantoms of the brain
Never so our bright acacia,
   For the Wattle blooms again.

Thus you see, austere and lonely,
   Sailing o'er Life's solemn main,
One great fact is certain only --
   That the Wattle blooms again.

First published in The Bulletin, 27 August 1898

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on December 17, 2011 9:53 AM.

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