The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | VII. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
GENIUS
|
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
303
GENIUS
No mother owns a son.—Their lives are drawn
Together for a time. O'er valley and lawn
Of this our earth they pass.
But as they older grow, their spheres divide:
One seeks by choice the ice-blue mountain-side:
The other loves the daisied sunlit grass.
Together for a time. O'er valley and lawn
Of this our earth they pass.
But as they older grow, their spheres divide:
One seeks by choice the ice-blue mountain-side:
The other loves the daisied sunlit grass.
Many have lived before. Christ had derived
From many a star wherein his soul had lived
Soul-learning, lessons high:
Perhaps had suffered for another race;
Others perhaps had loved the royal face;
Another cross perhaps had seen him die.
From many a star wherein his soul had lived
Soul-learning, lessons high:
Perhaps had suffered for another race;
Others perhaps had loved the royal face;
Another cross perhaps had seen him die.
And this is genius.—Genius has rehearsed
In other lives its tasks, performed them first
In other lands than these.
On other azure waters Shelley sailed
Long ere his watchful guardian-spirit failed
To gauge the peril of the Spezzian breeze.
In other lives its tasks, performed them first
In other lands than these.
304
Long ere his watchful guardian-spirit failed
To gauge the peril of the Spezzian breeze.
Genius has lived and loved. Its head is hoar
With strange experience. Centuries before
Its birth, it toiled and dreamed.
No Phidias ever carved, no Titian drew,
Save from remembrance of an art they knew
Long ere the earthly stone or canvas gleamed.
With strange experience. Centuries before
Its birth, it toiled and dreamed.
No Phidias ever carved, no Titian drew,
Save from remembrance of an art they knew
Long ere the earthly stone or canvas gleamed.
And so with love.—What draws our spirits close
Is just remembrance. Lo! this scent of rose
Upon the bridal night
That floats with sudden sweetness through the room
Brings back the faint remembrance of love-bloom
Gathered in regions far beyond man's sight.
Is just remembrance. Lo! this scent of rose
Upon the bridal night
That floats with sudden sweetness through the room
Brings back the faint remembrance of love-bloom
Gathered in regions far beyond man's sight.
This subtle scent that in the girl's loose hair
Startles her lover—till his thoughts despair,
They wander back so far!
What is it but the memory of an hour
When she perhaps, ensphered within a flower,
Made sweet with that same scent some ancient star?
Startles her lover—till his thoughts despair,
They wander back so far!
What is it but the memory of an hour
When she perhaps, ensphered within a flower,
Made sweet with that same scent some ancient star?
305
This is what draws our souls together,—this.
Not the lips' pressure, but the former kiss
Repeated once again.
All perfect love is memory, nothing more.
Remembrance of a rapture known of yore:
A pleasure our souls wrestle to retain.
Not the lips' pressure, but the former kiss
Repeated once again.
All perfect love is memory, nothing more.
Remembrance of a rapture known of yore:
A pleasure our souls wrestle to retain.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |