The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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![]() | II. |
![]() | III. |
![]() | IV. |
![]() | V. |
![]() | VI. |
![]() | VII. |
![]() | VIII. |
![]() | IX. |
![]() | X. |
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I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
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![]() | XI. |
![]() | The Poetical Works of George Barlow | ![]() |
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XXVI. THE BITTERNESS OF LIFE
This is the bitterness of life,—to know
That Love lies not in front but far behind:
That not for violent searching shall one find
A sweet-faced rose of hope beneath time's snow,
Nor any flower of new joy below
The furrows swept by the autumnal wind,
Nor any corn-stalk when the maidens bind
The golden ears in a long laughing row.
That Love lies not in front but far behind:
That not for violent searching shall one find
A sweet-faced rose of hope beneath time's snow,
Nor any flower of new joy below
The furrows swept by the autumnal wind,
Nor any corn-stalk when the maidens bind
The golden ears in a long laughing row.
This is the bitterness of life,—to feel
The slow-limbed noisome minutes crawl away,
But not to mark by any happy peal
Of silver bells the passing of a day,
Tarrying till one more consciousness doth steal
Into death's pine-wood, damp, obscure, and grey.
The slow-limbed noisome minutes crawl away,
But not to mark by any happy peal
Of silver bells the passing of a day,
Tarrying till one more consciousness doth steal
Into death's pine-wood, damp, obscure, and grey.
Christmas Eve, 1871.
![]() | The Poetical Works of George Barlow | ![]() |