I
So all men come at last to their Explorers' Tree,
Whereon they carve their valediction to the world.
Whether as they, we explore a continent, or are content
to explore ourselves, we find that mysterious centre,
that vast and utter loneliness, which is the heart of being;
we hear that silence more fatal than the siren's song.
II
Silence, like sound, has its eight note scale.
There is the silence after sound.
(After the farewell speeches, the well-wishings,
the cheering as they rode proudly from Melbourne Town,
the silence of the bush.)
There is the silence of sound we cannot hear.
(The black men, always lurking, always watching,
never speaking, merging in the frieze of great untidy trees.)
There is the silence amid many voices.
(Often they spoke loudly, hoping to drive their fears away,
hoping to fill the empty air with assurance,
but the silence was in them.)
There is the silence of Death, of the voice that can never be heard again.
(After Grey died, he seemed to march with them still,
the invisible companion, not answering their questions,
not questioning their answers.)
There is the silence of Desolation.
(This was no Egypt, but cresting a sand-dune,
they yet might discover the stones of a city, time-devoured,
or glinting in the sun, a golden helmet, become a hive
for the patient labour of the bees.)
There is the silence of Despair.
(Returning to the depot, finding it deserted,
they knew that words could buy them nothing
in this land of Nothing for Sale.)
There is the silence more ancient than man.
(Wills, the scientist, said it: These rocks
are so old, they have forgotten the singing
and the shouting of the sea, the violence
of the earth in the making.)
And last silence of all, completing the octave,
the silence that was before sound.
(Waiting for the end, life flowed backward to its source.
Voices, like a spring uncoiling,
receded and were superseded.
The last cry of hunger and pain
became the first cry for breath,
and now at last there was only the silence,
and they and the silence were one.)
III
Yet one man survived, one man returned
a little while to the world of men,
telling how Burke and Wills had died,
wresting the secret from a continent;
when they asked him to expound the secret,
he would speak of other things, saying rather,
" The camels gave us trouble from the beginning,"
or, " Nardoo is no fit food for white men."
So all men come at last to their Explorers' Tree,
Whereon they carve their valediction to the world.
Whether as they, we explore a continent, or are content
to explore ourselves, we find that mysterious centre,
that vast and utter loneliness, which is the heart of being;
we hear that silence more fatal than the siren's song.
II
Silence, like sound, has its eight note scale.
There is the silence after sound.
(After the farewell speeches, the well-wishings,
the cheering as they rode proudly from Melbourne Town,
the silence of the bush.)
There is the silence of sound we cannot hear.
(The black men, always lurking, always watching,
never speaking, merging in the frieze of great untidy trees.)
There is the silence amid many voices.
(Often they spoke loudly, hoping to drive their fears away,
hoping to fill the empty air with assurance,
but the silence was in them.)
There is the silence of Death, of the voice that can never be heard again.
(After Grey died, he seemed to march with them still,
the invisible companion, not answering their questions,
not questioning their answers.)
There is the silence of Desolation.
(This was no Egypt, but cresting a sand-dune,
they yet might discover the stones of a city, time-devoured,
or glinting in the sun, a golden helmet, become a hive
for the patient labour of the bees.)
There is the silence of Despair.
(Returning to the depot, finding it deserted,
they knew that words could buy them nothing
in this land of Nothing for Sale.)
There is the silence more ancient than man.
(Wills, the scientist, said it: These rocks
are so old, they have forgotten the singing
and the shouting of the sea, the violence
of the earth in the making.)
And last silence of all, completing the octave,
the silence that was before sound.
(Waiting for the end, life flowed backward to its source.
Voices, like a spring uncoiling,
receded and were superseded.
The last cry of hunger and pain
became the first cry for breath,
and now at last there was only the silence,
and they and the silence were one.)
III
Yet one man survived, one man returned
a little while to the world of men,
telling how Burke and Wills had died,
wresting the secret from a continent;
when they asked him to expound the secret,
he would speak of other things, saying rather,
" The camels gave us trouble from the beginning,"
or, " Nardoo is no fit food for white men."