Poems Real and Ideal By George Barlow |
 |
|
| XIV. |
| XVII. |
| XIX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
SONNET XXIII.
FORSAKEN. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
 | XLIV, XLV, XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| LI. |
| LIV. |
| LVII. |
| LIX. |
|
|
|
 | Poems Real and Ideal |  |
67
SONNET XXIII. FORSAKEN.
And shall thy sweetness wither, woman fair
Set in the midst of lonely desert days?
Dost thou lift up to heaven thy weary gaze
And see nought round thee but the void blue air?
Have no soft lips of lover kissed thine hair?
Hath thine hand never toyed with myrtle sprays?
Hast thou not wandered by the green-blue bays
In summer, full of mystic dreams and rare?
Set in the midst of lonely desert days?
Dost thou lift up to heaven thy weary gaze
And see nought round thee but the void blue air?
Have no soft lips of lover kissed thine hair?
Hath thine hand never toyed with myrtle sprays?
Hast thou not wandered by the green-blue bays
In summer, full of mystic dreams and rare?
Oh, it were sin to leave thee blossoming so—
Alone, unplucked, unloved:—as great a sin
As to pass by some lily set within
A jungle,—where with heavy gait and slow
The loveless monstrous beasts lurch to and fro,
Piercing the rush-beds with their gaze unclean.
Alone, unplucked, unloved:—as great a sin
As to pass by some lily set within
A jungle,—where with heavy gait and slow
The loveless monstrous beasts lurch to and fro,
Piercing the rush-beds with their gaze unclean.
| Poems Real and Ideal | |