Hannah Thomburn

They lifted her out of a story     Too sordid and selfish by far,     They left me the innocent glory     Of love that was pure as a star;     They left me all guiltless of evil     That would have brought years of distress     When the chance to be man, god or devil,     Was mine, on return from Success.     With a name and a courage uncommon     She 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 Harry     When 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 Venetian     That 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 passion     At the touch of her elbow, or hand,     By the wifes loveless eyes that would flash on     The feeling I could not command.     Oh, I knew when revulsion came rushing,     Oh, I knew by the brush strokes that hurt     At the sight of a sculptor friend brushing     The clay from the hem of her skirt.)     She was mine on return from succeeding     In 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 tears     Just to lay my hot head to her touching     And 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 straying     And 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 Atlantic     And, so well had Loves 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 Jumbo     With a second blade shaken away,     There was never a dock in Colombo     So the captain drank hard to Bombay.     Then a point in the south like an anthill     Or seawastes, then hove into sight,     I called for no news at Fremantle     For I wanted to hope through the Bight.     Theres a gentleman, reading, shall know it,     Theres an earl who will now understand     Why I slighted the son of their poet     (And a vice regal lord of the land),     Semaphore, and a burst through the wicket     On 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 me     With harsh eyes unwontedly dim,     With a hand on my shoulder to hold me     And 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 buried     On the day I reached Port Adelaide.     They could greet me, let Heaven or Hell come,     They could weep, for the grave by the sea     Oh! the mother and father could welcome     And the kinsfolk without fear of me.     For they watched her safe out of a story     Where she slaved and suffered alone,     They could weep to the tune of the hoary     Old lie If we only had known.     But I have the letter that followed     That she wrote to England and me,     That crossed us perchance as we wallowed     That 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 story     Too sordid and selfish by far,     And left me the innocent glory     Of love that was pure as a star:     That was human and strong though she hid it     To write before death in last lines,     And I kneel to the angels who did it     And I bow to the fate that refines.