The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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IN LONDON
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
19
IN LONDON
The lips of Venus are as sweet
Though sipped within a London street,
And her rich hair
Is just as soft for lips to meet
In London air.
Though sipped within a London street,
And her rich hair
Is just as soft for lips to meet
In London air.
And Daphne's limbs are pure and white
Though darkness of a London night
Beholds them kissed,
Not skies with tints of sapphire bright
Or amethyst.
Though darkness of a London night
Beholds them kissed,
Not skies with tints of sapphire bright
Or amethyst.
And Psyche's lips are no less red
In that two thousand years have fled
With all their flowers
Since her old namesake sweet was wed
In Southern bowers.
In that two thousand years have fled
With all their flowers
Since her old namesake sweet was wed
In Southern bowers.
20
And passion is no less divine
Though round the brows of love we twine
No amorous leaves,
Nor white limbs through the water shine
On summer eves.
Though round the brows of love we twine
No amorous leaves,
Nor white limbs through the water shine
On summer eves.
For many an age may pass away
But still love's eyes confront the day,
Challenge the morn,
As fair as when, the legends say,
Sweet Eve was born.
But still love's eyes confront the day,
Challenge the morn,
As fair as when, the legends say,
Sweet Eve was born.
Yea, though a thousand hearts have sung
Of woman, woman still is young;
Her heart's the same
As when round Trojan turrets clung
The leaping flame.
Of woman, woman still is young;
Her heart's the same
As when round Trojan turrets clung
The leaping flame.
We find in our old mist-robed land
Bright eyes, soft lips, and loving hand,
And golden curls:
Love wrought with genius when he planned
Our English girls.
Bright eyes, soft lips, and loving hand,
And golden curls:
Love wrought with genius when he planned
Our English girls.
21
Not Venus rising from the seas
Was tenderer of limb than these
Whom London rears;
We need not give one age that flees
Our hopeless tears.
Was tenderer of limb than these
Whom London rears;
We need not give one age that flees
Our hopeless tears.
July 13, 1881.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |