The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | IV. “I THINK OF THEE”
|
| 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 |  |
90
IV. “I THINK OF THEE”
If thou forgettest, love, I think of thee.—
What if the white light-hearted wandering foam
That hath the whole waste for its passionate home
Of blue broad strong interminable sea
Thinks little more of this than thou of me?
What if the ferns, wherethrough the sun's rays roam
Fostering, are heedless as smooth fronds they comb
Of their sun's warm and genial potency?
What if the white light-hearted wandering foam
That hath the whole waste for its passionate home
Of blue broad strong interminable sea
Thinks little more of this than thou of me?
What if the ferns, wherethrough the sun's rays roam
Fostering, are heedless as smooth fronds they comb
Of their sun's warm and genial potency?
It matters little. Back into the breast
Of the deep sea the foam-bell falls at last,
And, when the hot sun's chariot seeks the West,
The sweet ferns' sweetest tenderest hours are past.—
So wouldst thou through the world have walked in shade
Had not song's sunlight round about thee played.
Of the deep sea the foam-bell falls at last,
And, when the hot sun's chariot seeks the West,
The sweet ferns' sweetest tenderest hours are past.—
So wouldst thou through the world have walked in shade
Had not song's sunlight round about thee played.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |