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 |  |
123
VII.
ANOTHER HILL
Another hill surmounted hand in hand
We pass towards other suns and other days:
Before us, glittering through the noon-tide haze,
Gleam the far portals of another land.
The summits whereon you and I must stand,
Snow-clad, enrapture now our upward gaze;
We quit the valleys and the rose-hung ways,
And follow out Love's uttermost command.
We pass towards other suns and other days:
Before us, glittering through the noon-tide haze,
Gleam the far portals of another land.
The summits whereon you and I must stand,
Snow-clad, enrapture now our upward gaze;
We quit the valleys and the rose-hung ways,
And follow out Love's uttermost command.
Ah sweet! when you and I alone succeed
With hearts that quiver and with feet that bleed
In reaching that strange mountain-summit there,
Shall we not smile—as round our close-linked hearts
The unsullied wind, straight from the sunrise, darts!
Shall we not laugh—amid that sinless air!
With hearts that quiver and with feet that bleed
In reaching that strange mountain-summit there,
Shall we not smile—as round our close-linked hearts
The unsullied wind, straight from the sunrise, darts!
Shall we not laugh—amid that sinless air!
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |