Dorothea Mackellar


It’s I was sad at parting, but the red heart from my breast
I left you as a token that I would not feast or rest
Without a thought of you to kiss my lips before the wine,
Without a dream of you to stoop and make my sleep divine.

So lest you should forget one word of all the words we said,
My heart, my only jewel, fired with living, pulsing red,
A trinket at your girdle hangs, and as a sign to me
The hungry, aching blank is, where my glad heart used to be.