The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | IV. “MORE THAN THESE”
|
| 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 |  |
12
IV. “MORE THAN THESE”
The long days stretch in front, and each will bring its greeting:—
The flowers and fronds of June—the August breeze,—
The green boughs o'er thine head in wild luxuriance meeting,—
The rippling waves of far-off summer seas,—
These all will greet thee.—I loved thee more than these!
The flowers and fronds of June—the August breeze,—
The green boughs o'er thine head in wild luxuriance meeting,—
The rippling waves of far-off summer seas,—
These all will greet thee.—I loved thee more than these!
I loved thee more than all the world's light host of lovers
Can love,—far more than fern or fragrant leas
Or fairies peeping through the rustling hazel-covers
Or gay-winged butterflies or restless bees.—
Ah! more than these I loved thee,—more than these!
Can love,—far more than fern or fragrant leas
Or fairies peeping through the rustling hazel-covers
Or gay-winged butterflies or restless bees.—
Ah! more than these I loved thee,—more than these!
13
I loved thee more than those whose tongues may praise and flatter
And for a moment thy young fancy please.
I have the flowers of love,—but only those,—to scatter;
Those flowers of love!—how soon their soft flush flees.
How many things thou lovest more than these!
And for a moment thy young fancy please.
I have the flowers of love,—but only those,—to scatter;
Those flowers of love!—how soon their soft flush flees.
How many things thou lovest more than these!
Life's hands are full of gifts, and thou art young and ready
To trust the tale Life tells of wealth and ease.
The storm has risen not yet. Thy harbour-light flames steady.
But when the black night shivers through the trees
And friends fail, call me.—I love thee more than these.
To trust the tale Life tells of wealth and ease.
The storm has risen not yet. Thy harbour-light flames steady.
But when the black night shivers through the trees
And friends fail, call me.—I love thee more than these.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |