The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| 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 |  |
204
THY KISS
When thou didst kiss me in the heavenly dream
One was I made with every poet fair:
I felt all past pure raptures through me stream.
Bathed were my temples in Italian air,
And thou wast Beatrice, and I could wear
Unshrinking on my temples that high crown
Her lover sole of all men then could bear;
Thy kiss gave strength and pleasure and renown.
One was I made with every poet fair:
I felt all past pure raptures through me stream.
Bathed were my temples in Italian air,
And thou wast Beatrice, and I could wear
Unshrinking on my temples that high crown
Her lover sole of all men then could bear;
Thy kiss gave strength and pleasure and renown.
But most of all it gave thine utter soul
And all its glory to me—yea the whole,
Pouring supreme delight transcending speech
Throughout me, rapture that no words can reach;
For who can say, sweet love, how sweet thou art,
Or tell the secrets of a rose's heart?
And all its glory to me—yea the whole,
Pouring supreme delight transcending speech
Throughout me, rapture that no words can reach;
For who can say, sweet love, how sweet thou art,
Or tell the secrets of a rose's heart?
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |