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 |  |
191
SONNET XXXI
“IS IT WORTH WHILE?”
Is it worth while to have breathed the earthly air?—
Yes: even if the final end be near,
And if pain's storms have clouded many a year,
Yet there were early summers soft and fair.
Passion hath twined for me full many a rare
Chaplet,—and Harrow boyish skies were clear,
And Oxford marigolds in marshy mere
Shone radiant,—and the Cornish maiden-hair.
Yes: even if the final end be near,
And if pain's storms have clouded many a year,
Yet there were early summers soft and fair.
Passion hath twined for me full many a rare
Chaplet,—and Harrow boyish skies were clear,
And Oxford marigolds in marshy mere
Shone radiant,—and the Cornish maiden-hair.
And the great Northern waves did welcome me,—
And, Alice, thou their Venus then wast born,
Born from the eddies of the frothing sea,
White-bodied as in the young world's sweet morn.
It is worth while to have lived for thee,—for thee,—
Though years on weary years have wailed forlorn.
And, Alice, thou their Venus then wast born,
Born from the eddies of the frothing sea,
White-bodied as in the young world's sweet morn.
It is worth while to have lived for thee,—for thee,—
Though years on weary years have wailed forlorn.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |