The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
294
“THE PURE IN HEART”
The beauty of little things we never see;
The beauty of one leaf upon a tree
Where thousands wave:
The beauty of one shell upon the beach
Where thousands crackle at our tread, yet each
Buries a sunset in its spiral cave.
The beauty of one leaf upon a tree
Where thousands wave:
The beauty of one shell upon the beach
Where thousands crackle at our tread, yet each
Buries a sunset in its spiral cave.
The olive-green sea-weed upon the shore,
Strewing the shingly sunlit briny floor,
With sunlight cast
Through the bright fronds: the stretch of white chalk cliff:
The white foam-streak behind the arrowy skiff:
The yellow moon against the tapering mast:
Strewing the shingly sunlit briny floor,
With sunlight cast
Through the bright fronds: the stretch of white chalk cliff:
The white foam-streak behind the arrowy skiff:
The yellow moon against the tapering mast:
It needs a pure fresh heart to see these things.
To catch the music of the west wind's wings
The soul must be
Freed from harsh labour and laborious care:
Then can it drink the beauty of moonlit air
And apprehend the message of the sea.
To catch the music of the west wind's wings
The soul must be
295
Then can it drink the beauty of moonlit air
And apprehend the message of the sea.
So with large things. Until the soul is pure
God is not seen, nor can the light allure
That clothes the line
Of the next world's high hill-tops. Nor can she,
Woman, whose soul is like the sky or sea,
Be apprehended save by love divine.
God is not seen, nor can the light allure
That clothes the line
Of the next world's high hill-tops. Nor can she,
Woman, whose soul is like the sky or sea,
Be apprehended save by love divine.
Who would see God, or woman, or the next
World—yes, or even understand the text
Of hills or plains—
Must purify his inward vision first.
Never God's beauty yet, nor woman's, burst
Upon the soul that selfishness enchains.
World—yes, or even understand the text
Of hills or plains—
Must purify his inward vision first.
Never God's beauty yet, nor woman's, burst
Upon the soul that selfishness enchains.
A rose to one man's insight is a rose:
A woman just a supple form that goes
Along the street.
But to the pure in heart a rose's breath
Is woman's. Rose and woman smile at death.
Rose, woman, God, are equal, being so sweet.
A woman just a supple form that goes
Along the street.
But to the pure in heart a rose's breath
Is woman's. Rose and woman smile at death.
Rose, woman, God, are equal, being so sweet.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |