The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
 | IX. |
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| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
106
XVI. LOVE IN LONDON
In London far from grass or tree
Our love took form;
Far-off from wild song of the sea
In storm.
Our love took form;
Far-off from wild song of the sea
In storm.
Not where the forest's silent bride,
The white moon, dreams,
Nor where the iris glows beside
The streams:
The white moon, dreams,
Nor where the iris glows beside
The streams:
Not by green bank or scented mound,
By burn or mere,
My sad eyes caught thy glance and found
Thee dear.
By burn or mere,
My sad eyes caught thy glance and found
Thee dear.
In London, city of ceaseless gloom,
Grim sunless place,
I found one girlish flower in bloom,—
Thy face.
Grim sunless place,
I found one girlish flower in bloom,—
Thy face.
107
In London, where no stars are seen,
For all light dies,
I found two stars of deathless sheen,—
Thine eyes.
For all light dies,
I found two stars of deathless sheen,—
Thine eyes.
For London, though it gives no flowers
And gives no light,
Gives priceless crowns of passionate hours
Most bright.
And gives no light,
Gives priceless crowns of passionate hours
Most bright.
In winter, when our fire was red,
The curtains drawn,
Who longed to see the gold-helmed head
Of dawn?
The curtains drawn,
Who longed to see the gold-helmed head
Of dawn?
Who cared what shafts of sunset flew
Through blood-stained air?
Not I—for you were sunshine, you
Were there!
Through blood-stained air?
Not I—for you were sunshine, you
Were there!
When leaped the amber stream of tea
From silver spout,
Was not with joy the surly sea
Shut out?
From silver spout,
Was not with joy the surly sea
Shut out?
108
Or when our lamp with rose-red shade
At dusk was lit,
Who missed the moon, that thankless jade,
One bit?
At dusk was lit,
Who missed the moon, that thankless jade,
One bit?
Ah! London after all's the friend
To court and claim.
It gives us love, and in the end
Gives fame.
To court and claim.
It gives us love, and in the end
Gives fame.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |