The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
But the loving spirit of Nature had yet further gifts in store:—
Turning homeward, round the cliff-tops, as we gazed on sea and shore
Came the marvel of the sunset—as the sun sank to his grave
Such a flood of golden glory lighted cliff and beach and wave!
Turning homeward, round the cliff-tops, as we gazed on sea and shore
Came the marvel of the sunset—as the sun sank to his grave
Such a flood of golden glory lighted cliff and beach and wave!
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Golden glory—stainless molten glowing wonderful deep gold:
Many a sunset from those cliff-tops had I watched and loved of old,
Never sunset quite so perfect, never sunset so divine,—
All the stars' whole wealth of radiance in its least ray seemed to shine.
Many a sunset from those cliff-tops had I watched and loved of old,
Never sunset quite so perfect, never sunset so divine,—
All the stars' whole wealth of radiance in its least ray seemed to shine.
This was Nature's bridal raiment, thus was Nature robed for me
In this golden wedding-garment flung across the sky and sea.
All that day had Nature wooed me, but her noblest gift was this;
With her soft voice she had charmed me—now she thrilled me with her kiss.
In this golden wedding-garment flung across the sky and sea.
All that day had Nature wooed me, but her noblest gift was this;
With her soft voice she had charmed me—now she thrilled me with her kiss.
—That was just one August sunset; but the glories never known!
Wealth of tropical strange sunsets where the weird sun sets alone
Over lonely wastes of water, or by reed-swamps dim and deep,
From his lonely labour passing to his loveless lonelier sleep!
Wealth of tropical strange sunsets where the weird sun sets alone
Over lonely wastes of water, or by reed-swamps dim and deep,
From his lonely labour passing to his loveless lonelier sleep!
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Glory of prehistoric sunsets, when no man's eye might behold
All the Western far heaven flushing or with rose-tints or with gold:
When no lover whispered gently, “Though the sun beyond the sky
Should depart and dwell for ever, golden love would never die!”
All the Western far heaven flushing or with rose-tints or with gold:
When no lover whispered gently, “Though the sun beyond the sky
Should depart and dwell for ever, golden love would never die!”
Sunsets it may be in star-land, countless sunsets it may be
Over starry silent oceans, many a dark-blue astral sea;
These the Spirit of Nature painting ever paints alone, apart,
Mocking human pen and pencil, with strange laughter at her heart.
Over starry silent oceans, many a dark-blue astral sea;
These the Spirit of Nature painting ever paints alone, apart,
Mocking human pen and pencil, with strange laughter at her heart.
“Would one human artist follow? Can he pass amid the stars?
Can he cross their golden portals? Can he leap their harbourbars?
Lo! I paint ten million sunsets, while he strives to understand
Just one earthly sunset colouring half a mile of sea and land.
Can he cross their golden portals? Can he leap their harbourbars?
Lo! I paint ten million sunsets, while he strives to understand
Just one earthly sunset colouring half a mile of sea and land.
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“While the deep sea drags a vessel down beneath the tossing foam
In the heaven I mix my colours, fiery lake and magic chrome;
In the peaceful heaven above them, while the sailors shriek distraught,
I achieve a feat of sunset Turner's genius never wrought.
In the heaven I mix my colours, fiery lake and magic chrome;
In the peaceful heaven above them, while the sailors shriek distraught,
I achieve a feat of sunset Turner's genius never wrought.
‘Painters, poets, all have striven—all have failed to follow me
When my brush sweeps o'er the canvas of the answering sky or sea.
They may struggle, they may marvel—Nay, the flamelit sunset air
That for me breathes only triumph for man's genius breathes despair.”
When my brush sweeps o'er the canvas of the answering sky or sea.
They may struggle, they may marvel—Nay, the flamelit sunset air
That for me breathes only triumph for man's genius breathes despair.”
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |