The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
| LXXXIII. |
| LXXXIV. |
| III. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
V.
But—a sadder thought—some souls have wandered,
Though among the living yet they be,
Farther than the letter-fragments squandered
On the billows roaring in from sea.
Though among the living yet they be,
Farther than the letter-fragments squandered
On the billows roaring in from sea.
Farther than the dead souls (love can perish
Never, though the loving hearts be dumb)—
Souls whom once our own souls loved to cherish,
Whom we think of when the roses bloom:
Never, though the loving hearts be dumb)—
Souls whom once our own souls loved to cherish,
Whom we think of when the roses bloom:
Whom we think of when the roses lavish
Scented flying petals on the gale:
Think of when the autumn wild winds ravish
Crimson leaves that down the eddies sail.
Scented flying petals on the gale:
Think of when the autumn wild winds ravish
Crimson leaves that down the eddies sail.
Farther than all thought or recollection
Even—for their minds have grown apart:
Death can bring deep sorrow and dejection,
But it never quite dismays the heart.
Even—for their minds have grown apart:
Death can bring deep sorrow and dejection,
But it never quite dismays the heart.
121
This dismays—that some are near us living,
Close beside our threshold it may be,
Whom we loved with all our power of giving,
Yet between us rolls a bridgeless sea!
Close beside our threshold it may be,
Whom we loved with all our power of giving,
Yet between us rolls a bridgeless sea!
Friends whose souls from ours the swift years sever,
Friends whose love is lost in starless gloom,
These indeed are lost to us for ever,
Buried deeplier than in any tomb.
Friends whose love is lost in starless gloom,
These indeed are lost to us for ever,
Buried deeplier than in any tomb.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |