The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
16
BEYOND
Beyond the travail of earth and all its sorrow
We twain may meet
And watch the roses gleam on God's to-morrow
Soft, fair, and sweet.
We twain may meet
And watch the roses gleam on God's to-morrow
Soft, fair, and sweet.
By some far sea where sunlit waves are breaking
One day we'll stand
And all our souls shall thrill with rapture waking,
Hand cleave to hand.
One day we'll stand
And all our souls shall thrill with rapture waking,
Hand cleave to hand.
And all the skies shall be love's pure dominion
And pain shall flee
With weary down-bent vanquished coal-black pinion
Across the sea.
And pain shall flee
With weary down-bent vanquished coal-black pinion
Across the sea.
And we shall heave one sigh of sweetest wonder
And one of peace,
While far upon the horizon grief's last thunder
Rolls, soon to cease.
And one of peace,
While far upon the horizon grief's last thunder
Rolls, soon to cease.
17
And we shall know that all the strife is over:
Ah! rest,—how sweet.
How tender-soft the supple yielding clover
To tired-out feet!
Ah! rest,—how sweet.
How tender-soft the supple yielding clover
To tired-out feet!
And we shall meet each other's eyes with yearning
While soft seas break
Before us, the melodious shingle spurning,
And lost dreams wake.
While soft seas break
Before us, the melodious shingle spurning,
And lost dreams wake.
Nor shall we know till the strange morning finds us
That we are dead:
That love's hand is as death's hand when it binds us,
When grief is fled!
That we are dead:
That love's hand is as death's hand when it binds us,
When grief is fled!
Then, crowned with our thorn-wreath, one soul immortal,
Two souls shall rise
Entering eternal life's majestic portal
Whose bars are skies.
Two souls shall rise
Entering eternal life's majestic portal
Whose bars are skies.
And heaven shall seem like one love-night whose glory
Will ne'er grow cold
But flame for ever o'er time's summits hoary
With wings of gold.
Will ne'er grow cold
But flame for ever o'er time's summits hoary
With wings of gold.
18
The night when first thy whiteness with me blended,
Me bruised and worn:
When pain was slain, and sorrow's rule was ended,
And hope was born.
Me bruised and worn:
When pain was slain, and sorrow's rule was ended,
And hope was born.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |