The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
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| I. |
| II. |
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| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
22
II. AND YET
And yet it seems to me that something of paternal
Desire within my soul is guardian to thy vernal
Sweet soft days full of leaf:—
And that, if thou didst pass beyond my sight, and, sinning,
Didst mar the fairy life that thou art now beginning,
A sword would pierce me of eternal grief.
Desire within my soul is guardian to thy vernal
Sweet soft days full of leaf:—
And that, if thou didst pass beyond my sight, and, sinning,
Didst mar the fairy life that thou art now beginning,
A sword would pierce me of eternal grief.
There is a love that hath within it nought but passion.
But there are souls who love in nobler sunnier fashion,
With far more starlike will.
There is a love that bends, with something of a mother
Within its yearning deep, and somewhat of a brother,
Above the heart wild love might wound or kill.
But there are souls who love in nobler sunnier fashion,
With far more starlike will.
There is a love that bends, with something of a mother
Within its yearning deep, and somewhat of a brother,
Above the heart wild love might wound or kill.
23
Oh, if my doom is this,—that I must see thee turning
From the true road, and know that even God's own yearning
Could hardly stay thy feet;—
If I am doomed to watch the girlish soft eyes harden,
Just as a man who sees a rosebud in his garden
Rusted and withered by the wind and sleet;—
From the true road, and know that even God's own yearning
Could hardly stay thy feet;—
If I am doomed to watch the girlish soft eyes harden,
Just as a man who sees a rosebud in his garden
Rusted and withered by the wind and sleet;—
If I am doomed to watch the fairy brown bright glances
That I have loved, God knows!—fling conscious cunning lances
Against the shields of men;—
If as thou growest in years thou hast to lose that tender
And nameless charm that now with more than mortal splendour
Doth clothe thy spirit often and again;—
That I have loved, God knows!—fling conscious cunning lances
Against the shields of men;—
If as thou growest in years thou hast to lose that tender
And nameless charm that now with more than mortal splendour
Doth clothe thy spirit often and again;—
If I must see all this and feel the cold sword sinking
Within my heart, yet bear in silence, without shrinking,
The utmost keen deep pang;
Yet may I know that I, according to my measure,
Lifted and never sank thy white soul's priceless treasure,
And loved thee purely, as I purely sang.
Within my heart, yet bear in silence, without shrinking,
The utmost keen deep pang;
Yet may I know that I, according to my measure,
Lifted and never sank thy white soul's priceless treasure,
And loved thee purely, as I purely sang.
24
May never a bud of thine through me be wind-tossed roughly!
Thou art not made of harsh coarse clay, nor fashioned toughly
As some thy sisters are:
Thou wast not made to hear rude merriment and laughter;
Surely thou hast before thee some divine hereafter;
Grow starlike, having soft eyes like a star.
Thou art not made of harsh coarse clay, nor fashioned toughly
As some thy sisters are:
Thou wast not made to hear rude merriment and laughter;
Surely thou hast before thee some divine hereafter;
Grow starlike, having soft eyes like a star.
No man can grow a woman as he groweth roses.
Nay, God himself at times from the long task reposes,
And weary he turns, and sighs.
Thine own path thou must take.—And I thy swift-winged swallow
May be forbidden for years thy summer laugh to follow
And the dear summer sunshine in thine eyes.
Nay, God himself at times from the long task reposes,
And weary he turns, and sighs.
Thine own path thou must take.—And I thy swift-winged swallow
May be forbidden for years thy summer laugh to follow
And the dear summer sunshine in thine eyes.
God's hand is over both.—Because I love thee dearly
A pitiless sword may pierce my soul,—I see it clearly,—
I know my risk full well.
Yet were there a thousand swords in front, or blazing trenches,
Mine would not be the eye or hand or heart that blenches,—
If I could save thee just one shadow of hell.
A pitiless sword may pierce my soul,—I see it clearly,—
I know my risk full well.
Yet were there a thousand swords in front, or blazing trenches,
Mine would not be the eye or hand or heart that blenches,—
If I could save thee just one shadow of hell.
Oct. 5, 1882.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |