The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
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THOU ART NOT THERE!
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
223
THOU ART NOT THERE!
I
The woods are bright to-day,The storms have fled away,
The sea smiles in the bay,
The corn shakes golden hair;
New maidens pass along
The woods with laugh and song,
White flowers the green glades throng,
But still thou art not there!
224
II
Wide fields the very sameBeneath the hot sun flame
Where once we, flower-crowned, came;
New tender lips are fair;
The old unchanged blue seas
Shine in the same soft breeze,
The same grass clothes the leas,
But still thou art not there!
III
Is it not strange and sadThat when these flowers are glad,
And waves with mirth are mad,
And laughter thrills the air,
Is it not strange, O queen,
That thou shouldst not be seen
Threading the wood-glades green,—
That thou shouldst not be there!
225
IV
How can the flowers be whiteIf thou, their spirit bright,
Dost linger out of sight,
Heedless of all our care?
How can our laughter long
Fill the wide woods, and song
Surge with the breakers strong,
If, still, thou art not there!
V
Art thou not traitor, rose,To every flower that blows,
To every breeze that goes
Along the cliff-side bare?
Art thou not false to these,
To flower, to cliff, to breeze,
Which worship at thy knees,
In that thou art not there!
226
VI
Art thou not false to me?Lo! I am the wide sea,
The blossom at thy knee,
The singing North wind rare:
Art thou not false and weak?
The rose upon thy cheek,
Love, if it could, would speak,
And urge thee to be there!
VII
That rose would surely claimSome memory of my name;
Upon thy cheek that flame
Doth hidden love declare:
The tears are in thine eyes,
Coloured as those old skies,
Which heard our passionate sighs,
When thou, first love, wast there!
227
VIII
When thou wast in the sky,And in the night wind's sigh,
And in the flowers that try,
In vain, thy bloom to wear;
When thou wast in my heart,
Thrilling with tender dart
Its depth, its every part,—
When thou, sweet queen, wast there!
IX
Oh, be thou there again;Hear this far lyric strain;
Sever the years of pain,
Of woe so hard to bear:
Be thou once more the flower
Those sacred woods imbower,
Yea, thrill them with thy power,
They'll bloom when thou art there!
228
X
The seas are yearning, sweet,To ripple round thy feet;
The odorous green retreat
In our delight would share;
Ne'er will one summer true
Turn the waste skies to blue
And give the old sunsets' hue,
Till, once more, thou art there!
XI
The old moon this very nightUpon the cliffs is bright;
Be thou their blossom white,
Thy glory, love, prepare:
The stars have need of thee;
Thy love, the singing sea,
Doth whisper unto me
That thou, sweet, wilt be there!
229
XII
The blossoms cannot bloomWithout thee; through the gloom
That hems us like a tomb
The songless cold stars stare:
Lo! on the cliffs I stand,
Awaiting thy white hand
To unlock lyric land,—
Oh, wilt not thou be there?
1880.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |