The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. | III. “SO MANY STARS HAVE SHONE”
|
| 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. |
| II. |
| III. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
10
III. “SO MANY STARS HAVE SHONE”
So many stars have shone, that all the stars are weary!
So many days have passed, that all the days are dreary!
So many flowers have bloomed
That nought is left of power within the earth to nourish
The spots where, gay of old, the green buds used to flourish:
Flowers, hearts and souls, are all alike entombed.
So many days have passed, that all the days are dreary!
So many flowers have bloomed
That nought is left of power within the earth to nourish
The spots where, gay of old, the green buds used to flourish:
Flowers, hearts and souls, are all alike entombed.
No more for me white hands shine at the summer casement
And beckon and allure, with dreams of sweet embracement:
No more swift glances gleam.
This arrow is the last. Though other arrows found me
And chains of other loves imprisoned me and bound me,
They passed at daylight: vanished like a dream.
And beckon and allure, with dreams of sweet embracement:
No more swift glances gleam.
This arrow is the last. Though other arrows found me
And chains of other loves imprisoned me and bound me,
They passed at daylight: vanished like a dream.
11
But this love passes not. Ah! lightly I began it.
The love-tree's stem was slim: a childish hand might span it:
How weak seemed Love's gold dart!
Others had flown before: no conquering hand had launched them:
As for the wounds they made, a dozen days had stanched them.
But this slight arrow-point has reached my heart.
The love-tree's stem was slim: a childish hand might span it:
How weak seemed Love's gold dart!
Others had flown before: no conquering hand had launched them:
As for the wounds they made, a dozen days had stanched them.
But this slight arrow-point has reached my heart.
Ah! let it there abide. The pain has shown me surely
That still my soul can love unspeakably and purely:
That still my spirit can ache:
That still my heart retains its highest noblest power:
That still, as in the days when life was all in flower,
Death can seem sweeter,—for a woman's sake.
That still my soul can love unspeakably and purely:
That still my spirit can ache:
That still my heart retains its highest noblest power:
That still, as in the days when life was all in flower,
Death can seem sweeter,—for a woman's sake.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |