The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
| LXXXIII. |
| LXXXIV. |
| III. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
119
III.
WHITE
White, when I saw you last, with eyes as clear
As ocean in the summer over sand,
Your face was,—when I pressed your cold sweet hand.
I did not know it was the last time, dear,
And so another sonnet-pressure here
I send,—the last wave washed upon the strand,—
Last cry from darkness towards the sunlit land,—
Last petal of the last rose of the year.
As ocean in the summer over sand,
Your face was,—when I pressed your cold sweet hand.
I did not know it was the last time, dear,
And so another sonnet-pressure here
I send,—the last wave washed upon the strand,—
Last cry from darkness towards the sunlit land,—
Last petal of the last rose of the year.
The last long wailing of a harpsichord,—
Last struggle, last spent sobbing, of a flute,—
Last broken iridescence of a lute,—
Last gleam and snapping of a singer's sword;
Last surge of passion round about you poured;
Last sunset-lustre on love's golden fruit.
Last struggle, last spent sobbing, of a flute,—
Last broken iridescence of a lute,—
Last gleam and snapping of a singer's sword;
Last surge of passion round about you poured;
Last sunset-lustre on love's golden fruit.
1871.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |