The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. | XV. THE REVOLT OF NATURE
|
| 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 |  |
104
XV. THE REVOLT OF NATURE
If thou dost go, Summer will follow thee
With eager lips and eager hair back-blown,
Leaving one hasty sandal by his throne;
And moon and sun and stars and white-waved sea
And flowers and leaves will cry, “Let not this be!”
And Spring will start and stay her girlish laughter
And, seeing thee go, will straightway follow after;
And in thy wake the fall's red leaves will flee.
With eager lips and eager hair back-blown,
Leaving one hasty sandal by his throne;
And moon and sun and stars and white-waved sea
And flowers and leaves will cry, “Let not this be!”
And Spring will start and stay her girlish laughter
And, seeing thee go, will straightway follow after;
And in thy wake the fall's red leaves will flee.
Summer will dally with the expectant rose,
Waiting for thee to flush its cheek to red:
Lorn he will stand beside the garden bed:
The sun's brush by the sunset will repose
Ungrasped; and not one love-word will be said
To any flower by any wind that blows.
Waiting for thee to flush its cheek to red:
Lorn he will stand beside the garden bed:
The sun's brush by the sunset will repose
Ungrasped; and not one love-word will be said
To any flower by any wind that blows.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |