The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| IX. |
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| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
Down in sunny quiet Cornwall, as the months and years sped on,
First she grew to girlish beauty,—then a tenderer sweetness shone
In her eyes, her figure rounded. Which is loveliest in a rose?
Its coy beauty when it's budding, or its splendour when it blows?
First she grew to girlish beauty,—then a tenderer sweetness shone
In her eyes, her figure rounded. Which is loveliest in a rose?
Its coy beauty when it's budding, or its splendour when it blows?
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Hardly tongue of man can answer—hardly tongue of man could tell
Which was loveliest, childish Annie, at whose feet the bright leaves fell
In the autumn, one might fancy, just to hear the laugh that rang
As her childish steps pursued them, or the girl whose sweet voice sang.
Which was loveliest, childish Annie, at whose feet the bright leaves fell
In the autumn, one might fancy, just to hear the laugh that rang
As her childish steps pursued them, or the girl whose sweet voice sang.
Yes: for ever she was singing, with a voice that mocked the birds,
Putting wonderful new sweetness into even the homeliest words;
Singing to the morning breezes, singing to the midday sun,
Singing to the stars that listened when the summer day was done.
Putting wonderful new sweetness into even the homeliest words;
Singing to the morning breezes, singing to the midday sun,
Singing to the stars that listened when the summer day was done.
Ah: how often have I watching seen some stalwart sailor stand
Silent in the narrow roadway, with his nets in sunburnt hand,
Listening as she sang some love-song, with his dark eyes full of tears:
Leagues away the sweet voice took him, to far other lands and years.
Silent in the narrow roadway, with his nets in sunburnt hand,
Listening as she sang some love-song, with his dark eyes full of tears:
Leagues away the sweet voice took him, to far other lands and years.
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And I've seen a mother listening, with sad eager eyes and deep,
To a wild song of the storm-wind, and I've seen her turn and weep,
For she thought—her eyes disclosed it—all her heart was plain to me—
Of some sailor-boy, the offering of the storm-wind to the sea.
To a wild song of the storm-wind, and I've seen her turn and weep,
For she thought—her eyes disclosed it—all her heart was plain to me—
Of some sailor-boy, the offering of the storm-wind to the sea.
And the younger women listened, as the girl's pure sweet voice rang,
And I knew their hearts were hanging on each simple word she sang:
They were dreaming of their sweethearts, of the lads they loved so well,
And to each the song spoke gently, with its own strange tale to tell.
And I knew their hearts were hanging on each simple word she sang:
They were dreaming of their sweethearts, of the lads they loved so well,
And to each the song spoke gently, with its own strange tale to tell.
So the days and years fled past us, and I rendered thanks and praise
To the good God who had sent us such a help for lonely days.
We should nevermore be lonely. Could one's heart ache when she smiled?
Was she not our own for ever? Was the girl not as the child?
To the good God who had sent us such a help for lonely days.
We should nevermore be lonely. Could one's heart ache when she smiled?
Was she not our own for ever? Was the girl not as the child?
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |