The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
199
“THE SAME FLOWERS BUD, THE SAME FLOWERS BLOW”
O old-world singers, ye are dead,
But still the eternal rose is red:
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That once ye loved, so long ago!
But still the eternal rose is red:
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That once ye loved, so long ago!
Where are ye, Greeks who sang at morn
Ere new-world sorrow of heart was born?
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That once ye loved, so long ago!
Ere new-world sorrow of heart was born?
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That once ye loved, so long ago!
Where are ye who in the early days
Being sweet made sweeter English ways?
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That once ye loved, so long ago!
Being sweet made sweeter English ways?
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That once ye loved, so long ago!
Oh, where are Iseult's ardent eyes
Coloured blue-grey like Irish skies?
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That once they loved, so long ago!
Coloured blue-grey like Irish skies?
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That once they loved, so long ago!
200
Where is the mouth that sang to sleep
The blue clear charmed Italian deep?
The same shores laugh, the same waves glow
That Shelley loved so long ago!
The blue clear charmed Italian deep?
The same shores laugh, the same waves glow
That Shelley loved so long ago!
Where is the heart that mountain-height
Uplifted, and the hill-streams white?
The same hills smile, the same streams flow
That Wordsworth loved so long ago!
Uplifted, and the hill-streams white?
The same hills smile, the same streams flow
That Wordsworth loved so long ago!
Poets and lovers, all are gone,
But still the sad same world blooms on:
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That all these loved so long ago!
But still the sad same world blooms on:
The same flowers bud, the same flowers blow
That all these loved so long ago!
Thou too hast vanished, lady fair:
Thy wreath is dust; thy crown is air:
But still the mocking lilies blow
That once we loved, so long ago!
Thy wreath is dust; thy crown is air:
But still the mocking lilies blow
That once we loved, so long ago!
July 1, 1881.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |