The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| 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. |
| XCV. |
| XCVI. |
| XCVII. |
| XCVIII. |
| XCIX. |
| C. | C. |
| CI. |
| CII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
C.
And now I hold thy letters in my hand:
As from another land
They come—they deepen holiest grief,
And yet bring some relief.
As from another land
They come—they deepen holiest grief,
And yet bring some relief.
154
They speak of meeting—simple words and wise—
Not overmuch is said:
Yet in each sacred phrase a volume lies
For she who wrote is dead.
Not overmuch is said:
Yet in each sacred phrase a volume lies
For she who wrote is dead.
A few sweet thoughts and perfect words suffice,—
But the whole soul is there:
No fruitless sorrow, no prolonged advice,
Only a mother's heart laid bare.
But the whole soul is there:
No fruitless sorrow, no prolonged advice,
Only a mother's heart laid bare.
Enough it is. I thank thee for the gift
Sent from God's starriest sky
That bids me not despair, but ever lift
My thoughts from death to love that cannot die.
Sent from God's starriest sky
That bids me not despair, but ever lift
My thoughts from death to love that cannot die.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |