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Poems Real and Ideal

By George Barlow
Barlow, George

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[section]
  
DEDICATION. TO JOHN ALEXANDER BLENCOWE,
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MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS.
 XIV. 
SONNET XIV. TO IRELAND.
 XVII. 
SONNET XVII. THE GHOSTLY ARMIES.
 XIX. 
SONNET XIX. AN EASTERN YEARNING.
 XXI. 
SONNET XXI. GOD AND WOMAN.
 XXII. 
SONNET XXII. GOD.
 XXIII. 
SONNET XXIII. FORSAKEN.
 XXVII. 
SONNET XXVII. THE SONG-BRIDE.
 XXVIII. 
SONNET XXVIII. ALONE.
 XXIX. 
SONNET XXIX. RELIGION AND ART.
 XXX. 
SONNET XXX. IN ST. JAMES'S PARK.
collapse sectionXLIV, XLV, XLVI. 
SONNETS XLIV., XLV., XLVI. A MORAL VICTORY: AND ITS RESULT.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 XLVII. 
SONNET XLVII. ALL OVER AGAIN.
 LI. 
SONNET LI. FORGOTTEN JESUS.
 LIV. 
SONNET LIV. THE COQUETTE-WORLD.
 LVII. 
SONNET LVII. HEAVEN AND WOMAN.
 LIX. 
SONNET LIX. LOST RICHES.
  
SONNET. IN BOHEMIA: A CONTRAST.
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SONNETS.
 IV. 
IV. THE ONE STAR.
  
THY SPANISH LOVES.
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SEVEN SONNETS.
 II. 
II. CAPITAL PUNISHMENT.
 IV. 
IV. THE DAY OF THANKSGIVING: AFTER THE EGYPTIAN WAR OF 1882.
 VI. 
VI. FOR VICTOR HUGO'S EIGHTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY, FEBRUARY 26, 1883.
 VII. 
VII. WILLIAM GOULDSTONE.
  
A WINTER VISION.
  
A WINTER SONG.
  
AND YET.
  
MIRROR AND ROSE.
  
THE KING.
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TWO SONNETS.
 I. 
I. TO-NIGHT.
 II. 
II. ALONE.
  
A RUSSIAN WOMAN TO A RUSSIAN NIHILIST.
  
POETRY AND SCIENCE.
  
SOPHIA PEROVSKAIA.
  
GELIABOFF.
  
IRELAND TO ENGLAND.
 XX. 
SONNET XX. “IT IS GOD WE NEED.”
 XXI. 
SONNET XXI. “AND YET WE STRETCH OUR ARMS OUT TO THE HUMAN.”
  
THE DEEP LOVE.
  
SONNET. CHRIST'S ETERNAL POETHOOD.
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AUTUMN VOICES:
 I. 
I. THE LATER LOVE.
 II. 
II. THE ETERNAL BOYHOOD.
 IX. 
IX. THE SOUL-GAME.
 XII. 
XII. THE SWEETEST LOVE.
 XXII. 
XXII. AT LAST.
  
SONNET. CHRIST'S LOVE.
  
A VISION OF THE DEAD.
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LOVE-LYRICS.
 I. 
I. AFTER LONG MONTHS.
 II. 
II. “THY FACE.”
 III. 
III. “BEYOND.”
 IV. 
IV. “NEVER TIRED?”
 V. 
V. IN THE LATER DAYS.

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90

III.

And that night,—having sent a letter first,—
He waited her beside the blue still sea.
The ripples at his feet plashed tenderly,—
Now he was ready,—let Fate do its worst,
No night than last night could be more accursed!
Now he felt oneness with the rich rose-tree,
And watched the sunset,—and it did not flee,
Then passion grasped his throat with giant thirst.
He turned to meet her,—for the hour had come.
Then lo! a carriage by the sea-side wall,
And into his a woman's eyes once flashed;
Then on towards Venice the grey horses dashed.
He saw it now,—Last night or never at all:—
Aye—never, never, never!—till the tomb.
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