The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
58
TILL DEATH
There are those who love the sunny Southern ocean
With its olive-clad and myrtle-scented shore
And its waves that know no wrestling tides' commotion;
They will dream of its clear waters evermore:
For in Italy—perhaps—Love bent and blessed them,
Smiling angel-like from depths of bluest sky.
So they love the land where perfect Love caressed them
More than all lands, and will love it till they die.
With its olive-clad and myrtle-scented shore
And its waves that know no wrestling tides' commotion;
They will dream of its clear waters evermore:
For in Italy—perhaps—Love bent and blessed them,
Smiling angel-like from depths of bluest sky.
So they love the land where perfect Love caressed them
More than all lands, and will love it till they die.
Others heard Love whisper through the English larches,
Heard in gentle spring his gentleness of tone;
Saw Love stepping through the fragrant forest-arches,
And the banks of yellow primrose were his throne.
Or they heard Love's message ever-new though olden,
When the autumn winds came sobbing through the sky
Strewing forest-paths with crimson leaves and golden:
They will love the autumn forest till they die.
Heard in gentle spring his gentleness of tone;
Saw Love stepping through the fragrant forest-arches,
And the banks of yellow primrose were his throne.
Or they heard Love's message ever-new though olden,
When the autumn winds came sobbing through the sky
Strewing forest-paths with crimson leaves and golden:
They will love the autumn forest till they die.
59
Others met Love in the darkness of the city,
Underneath the dreary fog-wreaths and the smoke:
Knew Love's sweetness and his pureness and his pity;
Felt the world awake to gladness when he spoke.
So they love the grim old city—aye, for ever—
Better than the bluest depths of Southern sky.
They will love the red moon over our old river:
They'll be true to our old city till they die!
Underneath the dreary fog-wreaths and the smoke:
Knew Love's sweetness and his pureness and his pity;
Felt the world awake to gladness when he spoke.
So they love the grim old city—aye, for ever—
Better than the bluest depths of Southern sky.
They will love the red moon over our old river:
They'll be true to our old city till they die!
Nov. 19, 1887.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |