The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
303
LVIII. ANOTHER YEAR
Another year will soon spread speedy wings
And pass into the darkness of dead things,
But still the land is ours:
The land of love is still our own to hold;
Its blossoms white and blossoms of pure gold,
And all the next year's flowers.
And pass into the darkness of dead things,
But still the land is ours:
The land of love is still our own to hold;
Its blossoms white and blossoms of pure gold,
And all the next year's flowers.
All flowers and beauty of the coming year
Are still mine own, for thou art with me, dear,
Thou, chief of all things sweet.
The old dead year may carry off its spoil:
It matters not, for thy true hand can foil
Death, and avert defeat.
Are still mine own, for thou art with me, dear,
Thou, chief of all things sweet.
The old dead year may carry off its spoil:
It matters not, for thy true hand can foil
Death, and avert defeat.
There is no death, if only love's fair land
Be ours for ever; if, firm hand in hand,
We face the future days.
Death has no power when loving hearts are one,
And winter gleams as with an August sun
And lights flower-fragrant ways.
Be ours for ever; if, firm hand in hand,
We face the future days.
304
And winter gleams as with an August sun
And lights flower-fragrant ways.
Not only, love, the coming year is ours,
But all the next world's unforeseen great flowers
If God be good and we
Faithful. All future time before us lies
And fervent summers with unknown blue skies
And blue unheard-of sea.
But all the next world's unforeseen great flowers
If God be good and we
Faithful. All future time before us lies
And fervent summers with unknown blue skies
And blue unheard-of sea.
Through pain and dark dread storms we have endured
And this foretaste of victory secured;
Love's fortress still we keep.
Love's flag still flies above the topmost tower,
And still thy watchman's cry from hour to hour
Rings through life's sombre sleep.
And this foretaste of victory secured;
Love's fortress still we keep.
Love's flag still flies above the topmost tower,
And still thy watchman's cry from hour to hour
Rings through life's sombre sleep.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |