The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. | II. LOVE AND LOVE
|
| 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 |  |
87
II. LOVE AND LOVE
I
I raised my arms to heaven in agony
And cried out wildly, “Frail are women fair!
Their love is as a breath of sunlit air
Or white cloud floating o'er a summer sea.
What is her passion of soul compared to me,
Me—for the storm-wreaths nestle in my hair
And I the inexorable anguish bear
Of one whose love outstrips eternity.
And cried out wildly, “Frail are women fair!
Their love is as a breath of sunlit air
Or white cloud floating o'er a summer sea.
What is her passion of soul compared to me,
Me—for the storm-wreaths nestle in my hair
And I the inexorable anguish bear
Of one whose love outstrips eternity.
“Her love is measured by the sands of time,—
But mine is as the mountains or the stars:
It snaps all manacles, it laughs at bars,
Nor findeth the high blue airs too sublime.
Her love is dainty as a rose's wings,—
But through the plumes of mine the thunder sings.”
But mine is as the mountains or the stars:
It snaps all manacles, it laughs at bars,
Nor findeth the high blue airs too sublime.
Her love is dainty as a rose's wings,—
But through the plumes of mine the thunder sings.”
88
II.
I weeping said, “What is her love to this?”
But, smiling, God said, “What is yours to mine?
I am the sun that lightens the sea-line,
And my lips meet the fragrant morning's kiss.
I die with love for all. Yet all that is
United my one pale thorn-wreath to twine.
Because my love is perfect and divine
It never knows fruition's final bliss.
But, smiling, God said, “What is yours to mine?
I am the sun that lightens the sea-line,
And my lips meet the fragrant morning's kiss.
I die with love for all. Yet all that is
United my one pale thorn-wreath to twine.
Because my love is perfect and divine
It never knows fruition's final bliss.
“What is her love to yours? Small, it may be.
But yours to mine is as the rippling lake
To the shore-margin where the vast waves break
Full of song-echoes from the open sea.
Your song is as the singing of a day:—
My song laughs golden-haired when Time turns grey.”
But yours to mine is as the rippling lake
To the shore-margin where the vast waves break
Full of song-echoes from the open sea.
Your song is as the singing of a day:—
My song laughs golden-haired when Time turns grey.”
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |