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

How strong my passionate love has grown!
How strange and sad and hard to-day
What once seemed easy seems! My own
She is, and yet I may grow grey
And she may never quite be mine:
Can such a method be divine?

Old doubt returns. Can God do this?
Fill all my heart with love of thee;

102

Put thy mouth to my own to kiss,
And let me feel its purity;
Make me each day discern thee fair,
And worship more thine eyes and hair;

Can he do this—did he inspire
When thou wast (as thou art not now)
In danger, my protective fire
Of passion—listen to my vow
That, come what would, thou shouldst be safe,
However heart and flesh might chafe;

O sweetheart, did God do this thing,
Send me to save thee—and can he,
The just great God, the mighty King,
Now ravish all thy soul from me?
Will some new hand approach, and reap
The corn I sowed in agony deep?

Aye, wilt thou marry? Shall I stand
And see the glory fade away
From this our own enchanted land?
Will darkness be too strong for day?
Is this what God demands at last?
More pain—I thought the worst was past.

103

Must I, who by those Northern streams
Saw autumn shed upon the air
Red leaves, and change the flowers of dreams
To flowerless wastes of real despair—
Must I, who saw my youth's sun set,
In manhood meet a worse thing yet?

And then she loves me. Yes, I know:
For, when I kiss her darling head,
It rises, ever so gently—so—
And meets my lips. No word is said,
And yet by that one simple sign
I know the girl's pure heart is mine.

Perhaps...and have I not the right?
What man has better right than I?
I've guarded her by day and night,
Been sunlight in her midday sky,
Starlight and moonlight through her sleep;
I sowed the corn. May I not reap?

I think I could reap, if I chose;
For I have made her life so fair:

104

Her every happiness she owes
To me,—each breath of summer air
That she respires, pure, sinless, free,
She owes, and knows she owes, to me.

Shall I not take her? Shall I stand
Doubting, reluctant? Though I'm bound
And wedded, would a God command
That I should never quite be crowned
By perfect love? This virgin's mine!
I feel it: and the gift's divine.

I've won her—surely? What can man
Do more than I have done indeed?
She needed succour. Lo! I ran
To succour,—saved her at her need.
Andromeda was rightly wed
To Perseus, when her foe lay dead.

I who the many-headed foe
Of London selfishness have slain,
Shall I in turn not surely know
Reward for all my love and pain?
Andromeda shall I not take,
And on her lips my long thirst slake?

105

A single monster Perseus slew:
But I have toiled from day to day,
Have fought beneath bright skies of blue,
Have battled through the fog-wreaths grey,
Have won for her wild countless fights
And overthrown a thousand knights.

Is she not mine beyond dispute?
Mine: and my dear one knows it too.
I kissed her fiercely; she was mute.
So little now remains to do—
To press my victory to the end,
Become a lover, not a friend.

Not friend!...Ah, would it be to lose
The deep sweet friendship? Would it be
To stain her pure mind, and confuse
Her simple trusting thoughts of me?
I cannot marry her. Would less
Be wronging her beyond redress?

Have I fought through a thousand fights,
Unhorsed black-armoured foe on foe,

106

Yet is there out of all the knights
One knight still left me to lay low?
Does one still bar me from the goal?
The lower side of my own soul.

Is, after all, myself the worst
Of all my enemies?—Have I slain
Thousands, and left their bodies cursed
And sword-split helmets on the plain:
Have I, with heart ready to break,
Fought London for the woman's sake?

And must I, having saved her now,
And standing face to face alone
With her, take on me a harder vow?
Must love's fruits to the winds be thrown?
Must I now with a stronger knight
—Myself—wage this last deadliest fight?