The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems By George Barlow |
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| THE MELODY OF LIFE.
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems |  |
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THE MELODY OF LIFE.
SIX SONNETS.
I.—LIFE.
Life onward flows—and now as I look back,
I see, perhaps, the sweetest loves behind:
The fairest wreaths of blossoms perhaps were twined
When youthful feet were eager on the track.
Oh, for one breath of the dear balmy wind
That played across the meadows where I trod
When gold-harped king Apollo was my god,—
When first for the august green bays I pined!
I see, perhaps, the sweetest loves behind:
The fairest wreaths of blossoms perhaps were twined
When youthful feet were eager on the track.
Oh, for one breath of the dear balmy wind
That played across the meadows where I trod
When gold-harped king Apollo was my god,—
When first for the august green bays I pined!
Oh, for one breath now of the former air
That kissed my brows, delicious from the sea,
Soft from the meadows, from the mountains fair,
Fragrant from the divine flower-sprinkled lea,—
Oh, for one perfect kiss from lips that were
Tender, in the old tender days, for me!
That kissed my brows, delicious from the sea,
Soft from the meadows, from the mountains fair,
Fragrant from the divine flower-sprinkled lea,—
Oh, for one perfect kiss from lips that were
Tender, in the old tender days, for me!
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II.—HAS IT ALL PASSED?
Has it all passed? Is there no more divine
Nectar of love made ready in the years
To come,—no further draughts of passion's wine?
No further circlets,—though these drop with tears?
Better it is a dewy wreath to twine
Than no wreath,—better is a cloud-swept day
Than utter darkness crushing with dismay
The sun-desiring rose, the sweet woodbine.
Nectar of love made ready in the years
To come,—no further draughts of passion's wine?
No further circlets,—though these drop with tears?
Better it is a dewy wreath to twine
Than no wreath,—better is a cloud-swept day
Than utter darkness crushing with dismay
The sun-desiring rose, the sweet woodbine.
The wreaths of passion were full often wet
With tears, I know it,—yet how sad the dry
Long passionless cold days that must be met,—
The path that must be traversed by-and-bye,—
The glancing back,—the wondering,—the regret,—
The seeking for lost pleasure;—till we die.
With tears, I know it,—yet how sad the dry
Long passionless cold days that must be met,—
The path that must be traversed by-and-bye,—
The glancing back,—the wondering,—the regret,—
The seeking for lost pleasure;—till we die.
III.—THE LONE DAYS.
And oh, the lone interminable days
Unkissed, uncrowned, ungarlanded with song,
Unglorified with flowers, unwreathed with bays,—
Hours when the phantom memory is strong,
And thoughts of past delights in myriads throng
The vestibules of mind, and scoff, and raise
Banners that once were golden as with blaze
Of love,—sound trumpets whose love-notes were long.
Unkissed, uncrowned, ungarlanded with song,
Unglorified with flowers, unwreathed with bays,—
Hours when the phantom memory is strong,
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The vestibules of mind, and scoff, and raise
Banners that once were golden as with blaze
Of love,—sound trumpets whose love-notes were long.
Oh, bitter, bitter, bitter,—when we see
The glad young roses by the window pane,
Soft-budding, reddening, with the purity
Of perfect bloom their yearly clusters gain:—
Knowing that bloom is passed, for you, for me,—
That nought save autumn seasons now remain.
The glad young roses by the window pane,
Soft-budding, reddening, with the purity
Of perfect bloom their yearly clusters gain:—
Knowing that bloom is passed, for you, for me,—
That nought save autumn seasons now remain.
IV.—PAST KISSES.
The thought of former kisses still is sweet.
Tender at night the trembling stars gaze down,
And we remember how those stars did crown
Wonderful nights of love—how hearts did beat,
And how we yearned towards eyes of blue or brown
And how the thrilling tingling palms did meet—
Oh, the divine nights after August heat!
The strolls through green lanes far from street or town!
Tender at night the trembling stars gaze down,
And we remember how those stars did crown
Wonderful nights of love—how hearts did beat,
And how we yearned towards eyes of blue or brown
And how the thrilling tingling palms did meet—
Oh, the divine nights after August heat!
The strolls through green lanes far from street or town!
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Wonderful early days, and loves of those
Soft early days, and gladness of the same,
And beauty that then rested on the rose,
A gentle spiritual caressing flame—
Ah! never comes a love-day but it goes!
The rose-fire endeth in autumnal shame!
Soft early days, and gladness of the same,
And beauty that then rested on the rose,
A gentle spiritual caressing flame—
Ah! never comes a love-day but it goes!
The rose-fire endeth in autumnal shame!
V.—THE JOY OF LOOKING BACK.
And yet there is a joy in looking back,
A holy rapture in the very loss
Of love that almost like a sacred cross
We carry, all along the blood-dyed track.
Our feet were swift once, if our steps are slack
Now,—and fresh feet will follow in the way,
Walking like us towards night-time through glad day—
Never will Love his crowd of followers lack!
A holy rapture in the very loss
Of love that almost like a sacred cross
We carry, all along the blood-dyed track.
Our feet were swift once, if our steps are slack
Now,—and fresh feet will follow in the way,
Walking like us towards night-time through glad day—
Never will Love his crowd of followers lack!
Sweeter embraces than the embraces sweet
That gladdened our past youth shall gladden these:
Diviner summer,—yea, more rapturous heat
Of June, and tenderer murmurs in the trees,
And yet more soft a cadence in the feet
Of woman,—nobler music in the seas.
That gladdened our past youth shall gladden these:
Diviner summer,—yea, more rapturous heat
Of June, and tenderer murmurs in the trees,
And yet more soft a cadence in the feet
Of woman,—nobler music in the seas.
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VI.—IT MAY BE.
It may be that the lovers of the days
To come, shall far excel our feeble speech,
Our feeble thought,—that they with ease shall reach
Summits we dream not of, or see to praise
Not to possess:—it may be that the lays
Of future years shall be to ours divine
Indeed: that lovers' happy eyes shall shine
Godlike: that love shall traverse novel ways.
To come, shall far excel our feeble speech,
Our feeble thought,—that they with ease shall reach
Summits we dream not of, or see to praise
Not to possess:—it may be that the lays
Of future years shall be to ours divine
Indeed: that lovers' happy eyes shall shine
Godlike: that love shall traverse novel ways.
But yet we know that all our love was true,
And that for us once shone fair passion's day;
That once love's awful holy dream was new,
And that at least one tender red-rose spray
Fell to our lot; that once high heaven was blue
For us, and once at least life's music gay.
And that for us once shone fair passion's day;
That once love's awful holy dream was new,
And that at least one tender red-rose spray
Fell to our lot; that once high heaven was blue
For us, and once at least life's music gay.
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