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. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| LXXIII. | LXXIII. MY SWEETEST BLOSSOM
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| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
| LXXXIII. |
| LXXXIV. |
| III. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
176
LXXIII. MY SWEETEST BLOSSOM
I know that day by day death's cypress-grove more clearly
Shines, that the flowers of life for me have perished nearly,
And that the sunrise glows
Far-off, the sunset near.—I know that thou art tender
And young and fair and sweet, like the white maiden splendour
Ere the sun kissed it of the first white rose.—
Shines, that the flowers of life for me have perished nearly,
And that the sunrise glows
Far-off, the sunset near.—I know that thou art tender
And young and fair and sweet, like the white maiden splendour
Ere the sun kissed it of the first white rose.—
I know that I shall pass while yet for thee the rivers
Are blue and full of light,—while yet the alder quivers
With young leaves o'er the tide;
That, long ere thou art old, I may feel slowly wreathing
Around my head death's cold inevitable breathing
And mark his shadowy gaunt form at my side.
Are blue and full of light,—while yet the alder quivers
With young leaves o'er the tide;
That, long ere thou art old, I may feel slowly wreathing
Around my head death's cold inevitable breathing
And mark his shadowy gaunt form at my side.
177
Remember me, if death should take me while thou tarriest
Still with the flowers of earth and thy light laughter marriest
Still to the bright birds' song:
Remember,—like a dream,—the poet-heart which found thee
And the true poet-hand which circled thee and crowned thee
With praise most tender, and with love most strong.
Still with the flowers of earth and thy light laughter marriest
Still to the bright birds' song:
Remember,—like a dream,—the poet-heart which found thee
And the true poet-hand which circled thee and crowned thee
With praise most tender, and with love most strong.
Remember me.—Of all the flowers that I have gathered
On slopes made bright with gorse, or hill-sides purple-heathered,
Or cliffs that front the sea,
The sweetest flower by far, the brightest and the truest,
Of lilies my most white, of fairy bells my bluest,
Is the sweet blossom of my love for thee.
On slopes made bright with gorse, or hill-sides purple-heathered,
Or cliffs that front the sea,
The sweetest flower by far, the brightest and the truest,
Of lilies my most white, of fairy bells my bluest,
Is the sweet blossom of my love for thee.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |