The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. | XVI. THE POET'S DEATH-GIFT
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| 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 |  |
44
XVI. THE POET'S DEATH-GIFT
We have loved too much.—The sun is blamed who loves the flowers
And pierces deep within the tangled hawthorn-bowers
And lights with loving glee
The green grass-depths. The moon is blamed who casts her brightness
Not over one but over all the white waves' whiteness
And kisses all the foam-bells on the sea.
And pierces deep within the tangled hawthorn-bowers
And lights with loving glee
The green grass-depths. The moon is blamed who casts her brightness
Not over one but over all the white waves' whiteness
And kisses all the foam-bells on the sea.
O ye who love in small and common fickle fashion
What know ye of the intense immeasurable passion
That through the poet flows
And, if it could, would bring—even by its death—deep pleasure
To those it loves,—as God who loves beyond all measure
Tinges with his own blood the blood-red rose?
What know ye of the intense immeasurable passion
That through the poet flows
And, if it could, would bring—even by its death—deep pleasure
To those it loves,—as God who loves beyond all measure
Tinges with his own blood the blood-red rose?
45
So would the poet die for those he loves to bring them
New sweet immortal bloom. He would do more than sing them
As God did more than make
The world.—The poet loves. Yet who believes or heedeth?
Who understands his heart that wrestles in love and bleedeth
And loveth on and on, though nigh to break?
New sweet immortal bloom. He would do more than sing them
As God did more than make
The world.—The poet loves. Yet who believes or heedeth?
Who understands his heart that wrestles in love and bleedeth
And loveth on and on, though nigh to break?
A man may love too much. What rose of all the roses
When at the morning's glance her sweetness she uncloses
And blushes being fair
Knows that it took a God's death-pain to bring the brightness
Into her blood-red leaves that else had paled in whiteness,
Ashamed before the morning's golden hair?
When at the morning's glance her sweetness she uncloses
And blushes being fair
Knows that it took a God's death-pain to bring the brightness
Into her blood-red leaves that else had paled in whiteness,
Ashamed before the morning's golden hair?
What woman is there yet to understand or know it,—
That he the man she deems a careless light-heart poet
Loving where'er he wills
Has given his very life for some: though they shall never
Know all until the Last Day's fiery lightnings sever
The earth's foundations and the tossing hills.
That he the man she deems a careless light-heart poet
Loving where'er he wills
Has given his very life for some: though they shall never
Know all until the Last Day's fiery lightnings sever
The earth's foundations and the tossing hills.
46
What if they never had bloomed—though they may never know it!—
But for the long death-pang and love-pang of the poet?
What if (as God to the rose)
He gave his very life in anguish-throbs exceeding
For them? What if their bloom be his slow deadly bleeding
And all their beauty his death-gift? Who knows?
But for the long death-pang and love-pang of the poet?
What if (as God to the rose)
He gave his very life in anguish-throbs exceeding
For them? What if their bloom be his slow deadly bleeding
And all their beauty his death-gift? Who knows?
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |