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. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. | LXXVII. A MASTERING AWE
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| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
| LXXXIII. |
| LXXXIV. |
| III. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
183
LXXVII. A MASTERING AWE
A mastering awe at times pervades me and possesses,
Remembering that my song of woman's face and tresses
Will silent one day be:
This song may be the last of love-songs I shall fashion
Before I leave behind earth's loveliest sweetest passion
And face the passionless dark storm-lit sea.
Remembering that my song of woman's face and tresses
Will silent one day be:
This song may be the last of love-songs I shall fashion
Before I leave behind earth's loveliest sweetest passion
And face the passionless dark storm-lit sea.
The awe is very deep and terrible that holds me
When thus I dream. Its spell with strengthening force enfolds me,
The sense of coming rest,
Not on the heart of love, not on the soul of woman,
But on a larger love than highest and best of human—
Supreme repose upon the darkness' breast.
When thus I dream. Its spell with strengthening force enfolds me,
The sense of coming rest,
Not on the heart of love, not on the soul of woman,
But on a larger love than highest and best of human—
Supreme repose upon the darkness' breast.
184
Then if all men forget, it matters little to me;
So that I feel the love of the large night flow through me
And meet the night's sweet breath:
If only each morn and night, when men would gather flowers
And watch new sunrise gild the dew-kissed green-clad bowers,
They think of thee and love thee,—what is death?
So that I feel the love of the large night flow through me
And meet the night's sweet breath:
If only each morn and night, when men would gather flowers
And watch new sunrise gild the dew-kissed green-clad bowers,
They think of thee and love thee,—what is death?
I am content to end my songs, if I may fashion
This song with such a wealth within it of sweet passion
And song of flower and tree
That never through all time may man or woman gather
Violet, or leaf of beech, or tenderest stem of heather,
Or hare-bell blue, without remembering thee!
This song with such a wealth within it of sweet passion
And song of flower and tree
That never through all time may man or woman gather
Violet, or leaf of beech, or tenderest stem of heather,
Or hare-bell blue, without remembering thee!
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |