The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| XX. |
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| 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. |
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| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
319
A WOMAN'S HEART
What gift is there that time cannot replace,
Not all its grace,
Not all the sundry gifts and dowers of time,—
A sweeter thing
Than all the seasons bring,
Than suns' and moons' and stars' gifts more sublime?
Not all its grace,
Not all the sundry gifts and dowers of time,—
A sweeter thing
Than all the seasons bring,
Than suns' and moons' and stars' gifts more sublime?
What gift is there which, if once flung away,
Nought can repay,
Not all the silent years of loss and grief,—
Not heaven indeed,
Nor any faith nor creed,
Nor summer's bloom, nor autumn's golden leaf?
Nought can repay,
Not all the silent years of loss and grief,—
Not heaven indeed,
Nor any faith nor creed,
Nor summer's bloom, nor autumn's golden leaf?
What gift is there which God himself once deigned,
Since man complained
Of lonely life and of his daily task,
With his own hands
To bring the sorrowing lands
That groaned and grieved, yet knew not what to ask?
Since man complained
Of lonely life and of his daily task,
With his own hands
To bring the sorrowing lands
That groaned and grieved, yet knew not what to ask?
320
What gift is there beyond which lies a gloom
Deep as of tomb,—
No hope, no sunrise, should its light depart?
The gift is this—
A noble woman's kiss,
The perfect love of a good woman's heart.
Deep as of tomb,—
No hope, no sunrise, should its light depart?
The gift is this—
A noble woman's kiss,
The perfect love of a good woman's heart.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |