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. |
| 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. | LVI. THE DEATH OF ALL FLOWERS
|
| 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 |  |
156
LVI. THE DEATH OF ALL FLOWERS
Now that I see thee, sweet, so very very little,
It is as if the world lacked every blossom-petal.
Bright golden stars abound
And the fair silver moon is full of light, and tender,
And all along the shore the white waves' olden splendour
Breaks, with the same large sound:
It is as if the world lacked every blossom-petal.
Bright golden stars abound
And the fair silver moon is full of light, and tender,
And all along the shore the white waves' olden splendour
Breaks, with the same large sound:
The world is full of grace: the summer dawns superber
Even than of old: the wind finds still no hand to curb her
As o'er the hills she flies:—
But, when I see thee not, it is as if all flowers
Lay dead.—All else is here, but bloomless are the bowers;
Like me, they miss the sunlight of thine eyes.
Even than of old: the wind finds still no hand to curb her
As o'er the hills she flies:—
But, when I see thee not, it is as if all flowers
Lay dead.—All else is here, but bloomless are the bowers;
Like me, they miss the sunlight of thine eyes.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |