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 |  |
185
IX.
OUR LOVE-FLOWERS
Back men shall look, considering all my song:
As we now look towards Helen, or the face
Of that eternal Beatrice whose grace
Crowned the Italian bard, and made him strong.
Back men shall glance, throughout the ages long;
And women's hearts shall struggle hard to trace
Those perfect woman's features that I place
Herein for ever,—safe from time and wrong.
As we now look towards Helen, or the face
Of that eternal Beatrice whose grace
Crowned the Italian bard, and made him strong.
Back men shall glance, throughout the ages long;
And women's hearts shall struggle hard to trace
Those perfect woman's features that I place
Herein for ever,—safe from time and wrong.
Our early love-flowers are eternal things,
Though on the earth so soon they passed away
With tremulous sighing in their snowy wings,
And signs of death-tints, tokens of decay;
Time withers,—time sure retribution brings,—
Not one lost bud but blooms within my lay.
Though on the earth so soon they passed away
With tremulous sighing in their snowy wings,
And signs of death-tints, tokens of decay;
Time withers,—time sure retribution brings,—
Not one lost bud but blooms within my lay.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |