The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
LI.
We say: “The dead know not;
If they were with us, they could help to-day,
Share this dark grief, or bear this pain away—
If they could know, less sunless were our lot!
If they were with us, they could help to-day,
Share this dark grief, or bear this pain away—
If they could know, less sunless were our lot!
“Again, if they could share our thought
Some thoughts of ours might bring delight,
Some rays from earthly stars might pierce their night;
We should not either weep or smile for nought.
Some thoughts of ours might bring delight,
Some rays from earthly stars might pierce their night;
We should not either weep or smile for nought.
115
“Gladness (if such remain
For us) would be more glad
And sadness shared would be some shades less sad;
Less painful would be pain.”
For us) would be more glad
And sadness shared would be some shades less sad;
Less painful would be pain.”
Ah, they may not be far!
Our gladness may be theirs to-day;
Our sorrows they may bear away:
They gaze not down from some cold callous star.
Our gladness may be theirs to-day;
Our sorrows they may bear away:
They gaze not down from some cold callous star.
They, though their life be lovelier far than ours,
Subject to higher laws,
May daily and nightly pause
To lay beside us fair memorial flowers.
Subject to higher laws,
May daily and nightly pause
To lay beside us fair memorial flowers.
The wreaths we weeping brought,
The white pure sad funereal bloom
We left beside them in the tomb,
May be restored—in ways beyond our thought.
The white pure sad funereal bloom
We left beside them in the tomb,
May be restored—in ways beyond our thought.
Our life more fully, it may be, they can share
Than we their life to-day;
We gaze through skies of sullen grey,
They gaze through cloudless air.
Than we their life to-day;
We gaze through skies of sullen grey,
They gaze through cloudless air.
116
Far more of us they know
Than we of them at this strange hour:
Death may bestow on love undreamed-of power,
Bursting the senses' prison-gates at a blow.
Than we of them at this strange hour:
Death may bestow on love undreamed-of power,
Bursting the senses' prison-gates at a blow.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |