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 |  |
174
SONNET XIV
THE SOUTHERN PASSION
On England once flamed forth the deathless sun,
For, once, a woman kissed me—not as ours,
But with the sweetness of a thousand flowers
Whose passionate souls caressed me, one by one.
I seemed no longer where our dim streams run
And where the leaves with ceaseless storms are wet:—
The woman's long loose hair was black as jet;
Its scent stayed with me when the kiss was done.
For, once, a woman kissed me—not as ours,
But with the sweetness of a thousand flowers
Whose passionate souls caressed me, one by one.
I seemed no longer where our dim streams run
And where the leaves with ceaseless storms are wet:—
The woman's long loose hair was black as jet;
Its scent stayed with me when the kiss was done.
The glory of Southern passion filled my mind,
And pale seemed even Venus' locks of gold
And poor and worthless by those black locks twined
Over the brow some god had bent to mould.
In England even not every mouth is cold:
In England even the heart that seeks shall find.
And pale seemed even Venus' locks of gold
And poor and worthless by those black locks twined
Over the brow some god had bent to mould.
In England even not every mouth is cold:
In England even the heart that seeks shall find.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |