The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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THE SAME
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
203
THE SAME
For thou art ever, love, the very same:
Yea, far beyond the dismal fields of death
The broad blown plains of flowers have felt thy breath
And rippled into sheets of blossomy flame.
Death's hand faints back from thee for very shame:
Thou art too fair a flower for him to touch;
Filled with God's gift of beauty overmuch
For death to injure, or despair to claim.
Yea, far beyond the dismal fields of death
The broad blown plains of flowers have felt thy breath
And rippled into sheets of blossomy flame.
Death's hand faints back from thee for very shame:
Thou art too fair a flower for him to touch;
Filled with God's gift of beauty overmuch
For death to injure, or despair to claim.
Pass death, pass heaven, and search the utmost deep
Where farthest dreams with folded pinions sleep,
Yea, seek throughout God's uttermost domain,
Yet shalt thou find there no such love as ours,
No wreath like this of death-despising flowers,
No singing land like that whereo'er we reign.
Where farthest dreams with folded pinions sleep,
Yea, seek throughout God's uttermost domain,
Yet shalt thou find there no such love as ours,
No wreath like this of death-despising flowers,
No singing land like that whereo'er we reign.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |