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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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104

SONNET. IN BOHEMIA: A CONTRAST.

A scanty room:—poor furniture indeed:
Just one thin-blanketed small tressel-bed,
And over it a washed-out grey shawl spread;
Wall-paper showing some green wide-branched weed.
Cracked low discoloured ceiling overhead
And on the floor a rug,—no carpet there;
A picture opposite that seemed to stare,
Full of great colour-blots of blue and red.
Such was the bower of love:—and on the bed
A woman, beautiful as early morn.
Soft cool lips, full of love, or full of scorn,
And breast whose sweet touch might awake the dead.
No golden palace,—yet within this place
More than a Cleopatra's eyes and face.
May, 1882.
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