The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
67
LXI. THE MEADOW-SWEET OF HEAVEN
I wrote of fragrant meadow-sweet of earth
And mourned to think that last year's bloom had perished:
So vanish all long love-thoughts that we've cherished,
I deemed—yea, passion crumbles at its birth.
I wandered through the woods,—the flowers were there,
So soft, so tender—but they all belonged
To that new season: all the flowers that thronged
The woods of old had passed outside God's care.
And mourned to think that last year's bloom had perished:
So vanish all long love-thoughts that we've cherished,
I deemed—yea, passion crumbles at its birth.
I wandered through the woods,—the flowers were there,
So soft, so tender—but they all belonged
To that new season: all the flowers that thronged
The woods of old had passed outside God's care.
So thought I—and the thought was sad and cold;
For I had loved those blossoms, and had striven,
Mixing with fern their creamy plumes of old,
In my love's brown locks joyous wreaths to fold:—
The thought was sad: it passed; instead was given
A bright glimpse of the meadow-sweet of heaven.
For I had loved those blossoms, and had striven,
Mixing with fern their creamy plumes of old,
In my love's brown locks joyous wreaths to fold:—
The thought was sad: it passed; instead was given
A bright glimpse of the meadow-sweet of heaven.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |