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 |  |
160
XXII.
A VISIT TO OXFORD
A week ago I sought the self-same place
Where once I wandered through the fields of spring,
Seeking my vanished love with weary wing,—
Searching for the lost likeness of her face.
Still, still, the meadows shine with opening grace
Of sweet fresh flowerets; still the glad birds sing:
The spirit of Nature is an unchanged thing:—
Still, still, the winds pursue their jocund race.
Where once I wandered through the fields of spring,
Seeking my vanished love with weary wing,—
Searching for the lost likeness of her face.
Still, still, the meadows shine with opening grace
Of sweet fresh flowerets; still the glad birds sing:
The spirit of Nature is an unchanged thing:—
Still, still, the winds pursue their jocund race.
All is the same: 'tis I am changed alone.
The spirit of spring is festive in the trees;
The golden buttercups are blithely blown
Just as aforetime by an amorous breeze:
The peace of heaven is in the azure deep.—
And still the crimson clover-blossoms sleep.
The spirit of spring is festive in the trees;
The golden buttercups are blithely blown
Just as aforetime by an amorous breeze:
The peace of heaven is in the azure deep.—
And still the crimson clover-blossoms sleep.
May 2, 1875.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |