While The Billy BoilsSearchThey lifted her out of a storyToo sordid and selfish by far,They left me the innocent gloryOf love that was pure as a star;They left me all guiltless of “evil”That would have brought years of distressWhen the chance to be man, god or devil,Was mine, on return from Success.
With a name and a courage uncommonShe had come in the soul striving days,She had come as a child, girl and woman—Come only to comfort and praise.There was never a church that could marry,For never a court could divorce,In the season of Hannah and HarryWhen the love of my life ran its course.
Her hair was red gold on head Grecian,But fluffed from the parting away,And her eyes were the warm grey VenetianThat comes with the dawn of the day.No Fashion nor Fad could entrap her,And a simple print work dress wore she,But her long limbs were formed for the “wrapper”And her fair arms were meant to be free.
(Oh, I knew by the thrill of pure passionAt the touch of her elbow, or hand—By the wife’s loveless eyes that would flash onThe feeling I could not command.Oh, I knew when revulsion came rushing—Oh, I knew by the brush strokes that hurtAt the sight of a sculptor friend brushingThe clay from the hem of her skirt.)
She was mine on return from succeedingIn a struggle that no one shall know;She only knew my heart was bleeding,She only knew what dealt the blow.I had fought back the friends that were clutching,I had forced back the heart-scalding tearsJust to lay my hot head to her touchingAnd to weep for Two Terrible Years.
Oh! the hand on my hair that was greying!Oh! the kiss on my brow that was lined!Oh! the peace when my reason was strayingAnd the rest and relief for my mind.Till, no longer world shackled or frightened,The voice of the past would be stilled,Hearts quickened, cheeks flushed and eyes brightened,And the love of our lives be fulfilled!
It was Antwerp, and Plymouth—th’ AtlanticAnd, so well had Love’s network been laid,That I heard of her illness, grown frantic,At Genoa, Naples—Port Said.I was mad just to reach her and “tell her”,But a sandbank at Suez tripped me,And we limped, with a crippled propeller,Through all Hades adown the Red Sea.
Through the monsoon we rolled like a JumboWith a second blade shaken away,There was never a dock in ColomboSo the captain drank hard to Bombay.Then a “point” in the south like an anthillOr seawastes—then hove into sight—I called for no news at FremantleFor I wanted to hope through the Bight.
There’s a gentleman, reading, shall know it,There’s an earl who will now understandWhy I “slighted” the son of their poet(And a vice regal lord of the land)—Semaphore—and a burst through the wicketOn platform left guards in distress—A run without luggage or ticket,A cab, and the Melbourne Express.
’Twas a brother-in-grief of mine told meWith harsh eyes unwontedly dim,With a hand on my shoulder to hold meAnd a grip on my own—to hold him.A dry choke, and words cracked and hurried,A stare, as of something afraid,And he told me that Hannah was buriedOn the day I reached Port Adelaide.
They could greet me—let Heaven or Hell come,They could weep—for the grave by the seaOh! the mother and father could welcomeAnd the kinsfolk without fear of me.For they watched her safe out of a storyWhere she slaved and suffered alone—They could weep to the tune of the hoaryOld lie “If we only had known”.
But I have the letter that followedThat she wrote to England and me—That crossed us perchance as we wallowedThat birthday of mine on the sea,That she wrote on the eve of her going,Hopeful and loving and brave,To keep me there, prosperous, knowing,No care save the far away grave.
They have lifted her out of a storyToo sordid and selfish by far,And left me the innocent gloryOf love that was pure as a star:That was human and strong though she hid itTo write before death in last lines—And I kneel to the angels who did itAnd I bow to the fate that refines.