The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

The flowers of ancient worlds whereof we see
No traces, have not died nor wholly past:
They flung their perfume on the wide free blast
While living—then they fled from vale and lea
And their sweet tender fragrant spirits were cast
Into the tender women-souls whom we
Behold and worship; not one long-lost rose
But in the sweet mouth of some woman blows:
Not one dear blossom in some far land hilly
But now shines forth white-handed—yet a lily.
They are not changed—save only that they bloom
Sweeter, and with a lovelier soft calm,
And all the world, for one small vale, perfume;
One woman hath rose-lips, a lily-palm
Another—and the crocus-crown of gold
Shines forth in bright locks, splendid as of old.

231

II.

Then what wast thou? In what far land didst thou
Blossom? What region, splendid from thy breath,
Triumphed thenceforward over night and death?
Waht lily was the white calm of thy brow?
Art thou a lily, or a grand rose now,
Or some unearthly flower too sweet to name?
Yea, from what strange dim shadowy woodland came
Thy spirit? Thou art flower-sweet. Whence, or how?

Who saw thee blossoming in the lonely vale
With thine own soft surpassing sweetness pale?
Who watched thee, sweetheart, centuries ago?
Was I the wind who kissed thee, or the stream
Within whose ripples did thy petals dream,—
Or leaves which over thee cool shade did throw?

232

III.

Yea, who could tell thou wast a woman then?
Not thine own sister-flowers of sister-sweetness
But not the same divine white flower-completeness,
For moulded thou wast to be loved of men,
Yea, to be followed with all passionate fleetness.
Was it God who watched, and marked thy holy meetness
To spring forth budlike, tenderly expanding,
Into a woman's shape, superb, commanding,
Bearing the old same fragrance in her limbs,
The flowerlike scent whereat the dazed sense swims,—
Yea, suddenly, is the shapely flower-stem standing
Human, alive for aye, with breath that dims
All watching eyes—so sweet it is—with tears,
And voice like flowing ripples in all ears?

233

IV.

For, sweet, there is not any woman like thee!
They are not flowers, these common shapes around,
Nor sprang they sudden from enchanted ground.
Oh, how the old playful breeze, as if to strike thee,
Charged, then withdrew with gentle rustling sound
When thou within green Paradise wast bound,
Not dreaming of thy coming days of earth,
Or of these clinging songs, so firmly wound
About thy temples—knowing not of thy birth
That was to be, nor of thy woman-worth—
Dreaming instead that thou wast but a flower
Whose gentle wings for ever should abide
Within that far sequestered silent bower,
Never becoming mortal's blossom-bride.

234

V.

Now, therefore, all my triumph is the greater
In that for me this splendid bud hath bent:
The greater, grander triumph cometh later,
With more within it of divine content.
What though the former blue clear heavens were rent
With thunder, and the forked lightning flew
Like angry wings of vengeful angels sent
Sudden adown the piteous shuddering blue?
What though the old glad skies of peaceful hue
Be gone for ever—yet, in front sublime
Delight waits, nobler than delights we knew
In early struggling days of love and rhyme.
For him who tarries, him who patient waits,
Bound open at the last heaven's inmost gates!

235

VI.

And then the old strange sleep that brought thy splendour,
O gracious woman-blossom-heart, so near,
Again shall brood with wings snow-soft and tender
About me, and thy whisper in my ear
Shall bid all dark clouds from my spirit clear;
Again the old unutterable wonder
On angel-pinions through the cloven sheer
Abysses nourishing the latent thunder,
Soft, shall descend. I shall say, “Thou art here:”
And all the immense heaped clouds shall part in sunder,
All dark wet mists that made earth's valleys drear,
And the great heavenly peaks shall flash out yonder.
Again through vistas of enchanted sleep
I shall be borne, gliding from deep to deep.

236

VII.

For have I not through troublous seasons waited,
Soothing my lonely spirit with my song,
A warrior worn with fight, a bard belated,
Weary with woes, a tempest-wingéd throng,
And endless adverse foam-crowned surges strong?
Have I not wandered through the forests dreary,
Seeking the bud that to me did belong—
The blossom that I loved within the eerie
Old forest-walls before life, wingless, weary,
Fell like a robe upon us, and we knew
The stifling vales of earth for the vast airy
High meads, we sped on spotless pinions through
Ages before, at fateful birth, we died,
Life severing me from my celestial bride.

237

VIII.

This is the mystery, and this the glory
That no man apprehends his wedded queen,
Nor knows her past, nor understands her story.
Oh, all strange blossoms over poets lean,
And poets' ears with multitudinous voices
Are filled—their eyes are dazzled with the sheen
Of viewless wings—their trembling soul rejoices
At heavenly raiment, half-revealed, half-seen.

O mystic lady of the viewless wood,
Now that on actual earth thy feet have stood,
Art thou not frightened—wilt thou flee away,
Nor let me guide, as gentle as a ray
Of sunlight or of moonlight, o'er the foam
Of life thy steps towards our ancestral home?

238

IX.

For long enough on earth I've waited sighing,
Cold, lonely, weary—nursing my sad heart
In silence and in misery, apart,
Fainting for lack of thee—enduring, dying.
Now unto me come, winged at length and flying:
Tarry no more, now these songs smite thine ear.
O love, thy new-found subtle pinions trying,
Seek me, and with the old voice silver-clear
Say unto me, “Lost sweetheart, I am here!
Thou hast done enough—now let us rest and sleep,
Forgetting all the past, its every fear,
Its every horror—plunging in the deep
Of God's eternal passion-breakered sea
That waits to swallow and mingle you and me.”