The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | VII. |
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BURIED FLOWERS
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| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
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BURIED FLOWERS
To-day the poor man's fire ablaze
That saves him from the cold
Takes back the thought to other days,
To tropic woodlands old.
These coals that give the poor man heat
Once filled the air with odours sweet.
That saves him from the cold
Takes back the thought to other days,
To tropic woodlands old.
These coals that give the poor man heat
Once filled the air with odours sweet.
They waved as grass, they smiled as flowers,
They climbed the trunks of trees;
They filled old long-forgotten hours
With odorous ecstasies.
These English coals which now we burn,
Black now, were once gay flower or fern.
They climbed the trunks of trees;
They filled old long-forgotten hours
With odorous ecstasies.
These English coals which now we burn,
Black now, were once gay flower or fern.
They fill to-day the poor man's grate
And warm the wintry air.
Black lumps they seem! How strange their fate:
Once they were passing fair.
They smiled in heaven's old morning-mirth
And then were buried deep in earth.
And warm the wintry air.
Black lumps they seem! How strange their fate:
Once they were passing fair.
They smiled in heaven's old morning-mirth
And then were buried deep in earth.
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It matters not! To-day they rise,
And nobler work they do
Than when, 'neath ever-burning skies
Of ceaseless sunlit blue,
They filled the flowery vales with scent,
Till their first languid life was spent.
And nobler work they do
Than when, 'neath ever-burning skies
Of ceaseless sunlit blue,
They filled the flowery vales with scent,
Till their first languid life was spent.
In this grey Northern land they burn,
Black shiny precious things.
They lend the heat by which the urn
To the bright tea-pot sings.
They lend us heat of heart to jog
Through ceaseless rain and endless fog.
Black shiny precious things.
They lend the heat by which the urn
To the bright tea-pot sings.
They lend us heat of heart to jog
Through ceaseless rain and endless fog.
Their lives are measured not by ours.
We live and die; but they
Count by a million years their hours:
We are of yesterday:
The coals we pigmies pile and light
Were born in pre-Noachian night.
We live and die; but they
Count by a million years their hours:
We are of yesterday:
The coals we pigmies pile and light
Were born in pre-Noachian night.
The chestnut-seller in the street
Keeps his hot chestnuts warm
With buried flowers that once were sweet,
That fronted sun and storm
In lands and years when things we see
Were still remote futurity.
Keeps his hot chestnuts warm
With buried flowers that once were sweet,
That fronted sun and storm
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Were still remote futurity.
The humming-bird has glittered down
On yonder mass of coal
When it was pliant creeper-crown
To some tree's mossy bole.
Nature's strange all-embracing plan
Stores up the priceless past for man.
On yonder mass of coal
When it was pliant creeper-crown
To some tree's mossy bole.
Nature's strange all-embracing plan
Stores up the priceless past for man.
Within earth's granary deep and thick
These silent stores were heaped
Till at the miner's sturdy pick
From the black depths they leaped.
Dead flowers must face our smoke and mist
Whose petals once the sun's mouth kissed.
These silent stores were heaped
Till at the miner's sturdy pick
From the black depths they leaped.
Dead flowers must face our smoke and mist
Whose petals once the sun's mouth kissed.
And then they cheer us—you and me—
With steady warmth and light.
They aid our English fireside glee;
They make the ingle bright;
And then in flames once more expire
And, born in sunlight, pass in fire.
With steady warmth and light.
They aid our English fireside glee;
They make the ingle bright;
And then in flames once more expire
And, born in sunlight, pass in fire.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |