The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| 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 |  |
222
XXVI.
THE PSYCHE-SERVICE
This tender Psyche-service of thee, sweet,
Brings thee the nearer. Whiter is thy heart,
Purer thy being in its every part:
Towards me thou comest now with bird-swift feet.
Thou hast endured the labour and the heat;
Rest now beneath the shadow of my Art!
No longer, rose, thy straggling tendrils dart
On all sides, searching for some soft retreat.
Brings thee the nearer. Whiter is thy heart,
Purer thy being in its every part:
Towards me thou comest now with bird-swift feet.
Thou hast endured the labour and the heat;
Rest now beneath the shadow of my Art!
No longer, rose, thy straggling tendrils dart
On all sides, searching for some soft retreat.
My Art is unto thee thy God-sent bower
And thou within it art the gracious rose,
Its one presiding ever-present flower.
Lo! Art above thee her green mantle throws:
Wait,—tarry patient for one mortal hour;
Then, ever safe within my arms repose.
And thou within it art the gracious rose,
Its one presiding ever-present flower.
Lo! Art above thee her green mantle throws:
Wait,—tarry patient for one mortal hour;
Then, ever safe within my arms repose.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |