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. |
| III. | III. |
| XLVII. |
| LI. |
| LIV. |
| LVII. |
| LIX. |
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 | Poems Real and Ideal |  |
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 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.
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.
| Poems Real and Ideal | |