The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
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. |
III. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
The Poetical Works of George Barlow | ||
255
SONNET I
AUGUST BLOSSOMS
These are late August blossoms. Spring's glad days
Lie far behind us; early dreams have fled.
Not for us flames the golden crocus-bed:
No tender snowdrops lift their gentle gaze.
Roses are round us still,—and lily-sprays
Their fierce white fragrance on the warm airs shed;
Not all the flowers of sunburnt fields are dead,
Though dead is all the bloom that once was May's.
Lie far behind us; early dreams have fled.
Not for us flames the golden crocus-bed:
No tender snowdrops lift their gentle gaze.
Roses are round us still,—and lily-sprays
Their fierce white fragrance on the warm airs shed;
Not all the flowers of sunburnt fields are dead,
Though dead is all the bloom that once was May's.
Across the years, across the weary years,
Alice, sweet early love, I look to thee,
And, gazing through a gathering mist of tears,
I watch the flower-crowned cliff, the sun-crowned sea:
Robed in strange light, thy girlish form appears,
And thine eyes draw and thine hand beckons me.
Alice, sweet early love, I look to thee,
And, gazing through a gathering mist of tears,
I watch the flower-crowned cliff, the sun-crowned sea:
Robed in strange light, thy girlish form appears,
And thine eyes draw and thine hand beckons me.
The Poetical Works of George Barlow | ||