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 |  |
225
SONNET XIII
“LOVE ALONE”
Through life on weary life I seem to have passed,
Seeking for thee.—Now weariness supreme
Holds me. My lives' long battles like a dream
Melt from me, ghostlike to the very last.
My sword, all notched and blunted, lo! I cast
Into the eddies of death's silent stream,
Whereover floats full many a wan moonbeam:
I meet the stream's pale outlook, weird and vast.
Seeking for thee.—Now weariness supreme
Holds me. My lives' long battles like a dream
Melt from me, ghostlike to the very last.
My sword, all notched and blunted, lo! I cast
Into the eddies of death's silent stream,
Whereover floats full many a wan moonbeam:
I meet the stream's pale outlook, weird and vast.
Then lo! thy face burns on me, and thy heart
Turns meward. First for joy's own sake I weep;
And then a pang strikes through me wild and deep,—
A deathly wintry pallid icy dart:
For I can give thee nought but love, my own;
Love, love,—and love again,—and love alone.
Turns meward. First for joy's own sake I weep;
And then a pang strikes through me wild and deep,—
A deathly wintry pallid icy dart:
For I can give thee nought but love, my own;
Love, love,—and love again,—and love alone.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |