The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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 | II. |
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| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
77
III. A CHRISTMAS EVE
Over London, wintry London, fell the darkness and the gloom:
In my heart was leaden silence, even the silence of the tomb.
Like a monster on the city rushed the grim night, sablemailed;
Lamps that tossed their spears against it, seemed but sparks that flashed and failed.
In my heart was leaden silence, even the silence of the tomb.
Like a monster on the city rushed the grim night, sablemailed;
Lamps that tossed their spears against it, seemed but sparks that flashed and failed.
Was it Christmas, “merry” Christmas? Were there sounds of mirth and song?
Or would only ghostly faces round about my footpath throng?
Is it Christmas to earth's mourners? Are the holly-berries red
When the hands that used to love them are the cold hands of the dead?
Or would only ghostly faces round about my footpath throng?
Is it Christmas to earth's mourners? Are the holly-berries red
When the hands that used to love them are the cold hands of the dead?
78
Not an island far in ocean, by the foot of man untrod,
Where the flowers send virgin sweetness through the still air up to God,
Not a death-doomed star and voiceless, void of song of bird or leaf,
Is so lonely as our London, when the heart is wrung with grief.
Where the flowers send virgin sweetness through the still air up to God,
Not a death-doomed star and voiceless, void of song of bird or leaf,
Is so lonely as our London, when the heart is wrung with grief.
But the gloom was changed to sunlight when a woman's swift step came,
And the gold sun smote the darkness with his shafts of sudden flame.
How the light of some one's beauty and the brightness in her eyes
Brought again lost light of summers, brought again June's fervent skies!
And the gold sun smote the darkness with his shafts of sudden flame.
How the light of some one's beauty and the brightness in her eyes
Brought again lost light of summers, brought again June's fervent skies!
For the gift of your sweet presence through one golden afternoon,
May, my heart's own love, I thank you—for the blessing, for the boon
Of two hours of happy laughter, for the sense of long pain done,
For the scent of flowers in winter, and the comfort of the sun.
May, my heart's own love, I thank you—for the blessing, for the boon
Of two hours of happy laughter, for the sense of long pain done,
For the scent of flowers in winter, and the comfort of the sun.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |