Poems Real and Ideal By George Barlow |
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| XIV. |
| XVII. |
| XIX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XLIV, XLV, XLVI. |
| I. | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| XLVII. |
| LI. |
| LIV. |
| LVII. |
| LIX. |
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 | Poems Real and Ideal |  |
I.
A lover conquered passion,—and he let
The great sweet chance slip through his fingers quite:
But was he closer unto God that night,
Knowing that passion's golden sun had set?
Did no wild storms of anguish and regret
Sweep o'er his lonely couch,—whereon a white
Soft figure should have lain?—the battle of right
Had been fought out—the victory won,—and yet....
The great sweet chance slip through his fingers quite:
But was he closer unto God that night,
Knowing that passion's golden sun had set?
Did no wild storms of anguish and regret
Sweep o'er his lonely couch,—whereon a white
Soft figure should have lain?—the battle of right
Had been fought out—the victory won,—and yet....
All through that night he tossed about,—in dreams
Seeing a rose ungathered beckoning him:
Seeing the sudden flash of white that gleams
Above the bodice-lacework's loosened rim:
Waking and grasping—just the cold moonbeams!
Till morning broke,—rainy and weird and dim.
Seeing a rose ungathered beckoning him:
Seeing the sudden flash of white that gleams
Above the bodice-lacework's loosened rim:
Waking and grasping—just the cold moonbeams!
Till morning broke,—rainy and weird and dim.
| Poems Real and Ideal | |