The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| I. |
| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. | XVII.
THE ROSIER STATUE
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| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| II. |
| II. |
| III. |
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| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
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XVII.
THE ROSIER STATUE
This hath been given, that the thing I sought
I have also found: a flower I might love,
A bird to sing to,—soft as any dove,
And supple, and as wayward as a thought.
Towards me such a worship hath been brought,
And is it not enough? I might have sighed
For such a vision vainly till I died,
Building my silent statue all for nought.
I have also found: a flower I might love,
A bird to sing to,—soft as any dove,
And supple, and as wayward as a thought.
Towards me such a worship hath been brought,
And is it not enough? I might have sighed
For such a vision vainly till I died,
Building my silent statue all for nought.
It is not so; God gives me better things:—
The stone is moved and flushes, and I see
No longer a white maid with marble wings,
A cold ideal rounded mournfully,
A shape to which thought's speechless chisel clings,
But living woman's ripe reality.
The stone is moved and flushes, and I see
No longer a white maid with marble wings,
A cold ideal rounded mournfully,
A shape to which thought's speechless chisel clings,
But living woman's ripe reality.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |