The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

Six weeks ago! How long it seems
Since through the quiet London square
I walked, bereft of hopes and dreams,
And felt my whole life leafless, bare,
Barren for ever. Now to-day
The earth is gladdened. It is May.

I walk beside the river's marge;
I see the grey old Oxford towers;
Watch flashing skiff, and glittering barge,
And, on the banks, the same old flowers.
Town, river, fields—all are the same:
My only sameness is my name.

I feel as if I bore within
My frame a corpse. With living eyes
I see the quick foam-bubbles spin

Adown the weir; I see the skies;
I see the flowers; I see the oars
Sweep by the old thyme-scented shores.

And yet I know that I am dead
And that the horror of despair
Grips all my heart...They must be wed
By now—and does he find her fair?
And does he twine with tender hands
The sweet long loosened brown hair-bands?

Was last night—yes?—their wedding night,
Or will it be to-night? Will he
Win from her lips unknown delight
And find her sweet exceedingly?
So soft to touch? so good to kiss?
And was my darling born for this?

And was I born to watch the oars
Flash by the thyme-sweet Isis' banks,
To pace these green sun-lighted shores,
To watch the tall reeds' dark-green ranks,
While, underneath the May-stars bright,
Such horror may take place to-night?

The days pass on. I hate this place.
I hate the country green and fair;
I hate the bright swift boats that race;
I hate the pure sweet-smelling air;
I hate the river broad and blue;
I hate these trees the sun gleams through.

I'll back to London! There, at least
I shall feel nearer to the past:
The distance will have then decreased
Between me and where I saw her last.
I shall be happier near the spot
Where she so loved, yet loved me not.

London! I died in town in March,
And I'll revisit town in May.
The flower-beds near the Marble Arch,
With hyacinths or tulips gay,
Are fairer than these country meads
Wherethrough the blue old Isis speeds.

I shall be near the house wherein
I saw her last; saw those strange eyes,

In which I fancied love had been,—
In which I saw the tear-drops rise.
I'll turn once more that old sad page
Of life, and make my pilgrimage.