The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | VIII. |
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| 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. |
| LXXXV. |
| LXXXVI. |
| LXXXVII. |
| LXXXVIII. |
| LXXXIX. |
| XC. |
| XCI. |
| XCII. |
| XCIII. |
| XCIV. |
| XCV. |
| XCVI. |
| XCVII. |
| XCVIII. |
| XCIX. |
| C. |
| CI. |
| CII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
68
XXXIV. JUST ONCE
If we must part—though the mere sound of this
Is horror to me—oh remember then
Of all the thronging clamorous crowd of men
I loved thee best who never won thy kiss.
The choking strange sweet suffocating bliss
It is to me to see thee, and the pain
Beyond all words when thou art hidden again,—
These show my soul how fierce a king Love is.
Is horror to me—oh remember then
Of all the thronging clamorous crowd of men
I loved thee best who never won thy kiss.
The choking strange sweet suffocating bliss
It is to me to see thee, and the pain
Beyond all words when thou art hidden again,—
These show my soul how fierce a king Love is.
O Love, strong Love, who hast within thy hand
Not pleasures only, but a keen-edged sword,—
Who art the whole world's pitiless great lord,
Lord of the snow-clad and the rose-clad land,—
Give her, just once, the heart to understand
My heart before her utterly outpoured!
Not pleasures only, but a keen-edged sword,—
Who art the whole world's pitiless great lord,
Lord of the snow-clad and the rose-clad land,—
Give her, just once, the heart to understand
My heart before her utterly outpoured!
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |