The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| II. |
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| IV. |
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| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
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| X. |
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| XIII. |
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| 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 |  |
86
WHEN ALL THE WORK IS DONE
When all the work is done, let me look back
On lone heights traversed, moonless oceans ploughed,
Dark forests threaded, where a close-knit shroud
Of frowning foliage sways across the track;
Shores whereupon eternal love I've vowed;
Flowers I have twined in maidens' bright-brown hair;
Ferns I have twisted into locks as fair;
Summers wherein my singing hath been loud.
On lone heights traversed, moonless oceans ploughed,
Dark forests threaded, where a close-knit shroud
Of frowning foliage sways across the track;
Shores whereupon eternal love I've vowed;
Flowers I have twined in maidens' bright-brown hair;
Ferns I have twisted into locks as fair;
Summers wherein my singing hath been loud.
Let me as in one crowning vision see
The long toil ended, yea the very whole,
The utmost height, the summit, the white goal,
And, crowning every crown, white Gertrude, thee
Waiting to meet me—smiling a reward
In thy dear eyes for strokes of many a sword.
The long toil ended, yea the very whole,
The utmost height, the summit, the white goal,
And, crowning every crown, white Gertrude, thee
Waiting to meet me—smiling a reward
In thy dear eyes for strokes of many a sword.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |