Poems Real and Ideal By George Barlow |
XIV. |
XVII. |
XIX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XLIV, XLV, XLVI. |
I. |
II. | II. |
III. |
XLVII. |
LI. |
LIV. |
LVII. |
LIX. |
IV. |
II. |
IV. |
VI. |
VII. |
I. |
II. |
XX. |
XXI. |
I. |
II. |
IX. |
XII. |
XXII. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
Poems Real and Ideal | ||
89
II.
Then forth he went and wandered by the sea:
The horizon cleared and the fair golden sun
Flashed on the waves that answered one by one,
And,—turning inland,—many a wet rose-tree
Flung rainbow dew-drops at him merrily.
The battle he the previous night had won
Seemed like a fierce defeat,—a hot race run
For worse than nothing: such strange beings are we!
The horizon cleared and the fair golden sun
Flashed on the waves that answered one by one,
And,—turning inland,—many a wet rose-tree
Flung rainbow dew-drops at him merrily.
The battle he the previous night had won
Seemed like a fierce defeat,—a hot race run
For worse than nothing: such strange beings are we!
“And she”—he thought—“my rose-bush all this night
Of perfect passionate summer left alone:
With never a kiss imprinted on the white
Rose-breast that might have been my own . . . my own . . .
To-night is left us still: the ways untrod
Shall ring to-night to passion's steeds,—by God!”
Of perfect passionate summer left alone:
With never a kiss imprinted on the white
Rose-breast that might have been my own . . . my own . . .
To-night is left us still: the ways untrod
Shall ring to-night to passion's steeds,—by God!”
Poems Real and Ideal | ||