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. |
| II. | II. |
| III. |
| XLVII. |
| LI. |
| LIV. |
| LVII. |
| LIX. |
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 | 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 | |