Here you will find the Poem A Bushman's Love of poet Barcroft Henry Boake
You say we bushmen cannot love? Our lives are too prosaic: hence We lose or lack that finer sense That raises some few men above Their fellows, setting them apart As vessels of a finer make? The acme of the potter?s art? Are placed apart upon the shelf. So he is more than common delf, And, more than brute in human guise, Who, seeking, finds his nobler self Twin-mirrored in a woman?s eyes! Yet these things bring their penalty: For oft the merest touch will break These vessels of a finer make; And throats attuned to noblest key A draught of air will set awry, And stifle in an ulcerous sore The voice that floated to the sky And silence it for evermore . . . You say we bushmen cannot love? That, like our foe, the fire-fiend, We blaze, until a river-bend? Nay, less, a pebble-graven groove Where waters thread?doth bid us stay: Our passions for a month, a week Flare out and then they die away? For separation, like the creek That stays the bush fire, bars the way. You say we bushmen cannot love. Well, have it so! but this I swear? That she possessed a power to move The dullest boor to do or dare. But I, as being somewhat shy, Became the target for her wit How oft in wantonness she?d pit The blazing lances of her eye And keener rapier of her tongue, That carelessly made lightning play, Until to action I was stung, And, like a dumb beast, stood at bay . . .