The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | VIII. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| 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. |
| LXXXV. |
| LXXXVI. |
| LXXXVII. |
| LXXXVIII. |
| LXXXIX. |
| XC. |
| XCI. |
| XCII. |
| XCIII. |
| XCIV. | XCIV. |
| XCV. |
| XCVI. |
| XCVII. |
| XCVIII. |
| XCIX. |
| C. |
| CI. |
| CII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
XCIV.
But yet a greater host
Of silent mourners seems to encompass me:
They cross the wastes of many a shadowy sea
Swift-hovering, ghost on ghost.
Of silent mourners seems to encompass me:
They cross the wastes of many a shadowy sea
Swift-hovering, ghost on ghost.
147
They cross the unknown years;
They say, with grasp of hand or loving look,
“From each of us death took
A mother”—then their eyes grow dim with tears.
They say, with grasp of hand or loving look,
“From each of us death took
A mother”—then their eyes grow dim with tears.
Then through the darkness starlight slowly flows,
A strange sense thrills me as of love drawn nigh:
They say, “Thou knowest not what it is to die;
What warrior dreams of rest 'mid shouts and blows?
A strange sense thrills me as of love drawn nigh:
They say, “Thou knowest not what it is to die;
What warrior dreams of rest 'mid shouts and blows?
“From each of us death stole
Our dearest,—but to each did Love restore
That dearest spirit:” I wait to gather more;
Nay, silence—but less strife within the soul.
Our dearest,—but to each did Love restore
That dearest spirit:” I wait to gather more;
Nay, silence—but less strife within the soul.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |