The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| SONGS OF THE SEASONS |
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| II. |
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| IV. |
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| X. |
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
107
SONGS OF THE SEASONS
109
I. SONG OF SPRING
Very bright and very pure and very tender
Is the golden sunlight on the laughing leaves:
Very lovely is the early morning's splendour;
Sweet the lilacs smell beneath the cottage-eaves.
All things wake renewed to vigour and to passion.
Lo! the daisies paint their pink tips, one by one:
And the daffodils in their old shameless fashion
Dip their robes in colour stolen from the sun.
Is the golden sunlight on the laughing leaves:
Very lovely is the early morning's splendour;
Sweet the lilacs smell beneath the cottage-eaves.
All things wake renewed to vigour and to passion.
Lo! the daisies paint their pink tips, one by one:
And the daffodils in their old shameless fashion
Dip their robes in colour stolen from the sun.
Lovers pass beneath the fragrance of the hedges,
And they pause, half wild with wonder and with bliss—
(While the river whispers, “See them!” to the sedges)
And their lips seem soft as velvet, as they kiss.
Blue the sky is, clear of cloud and free of sorrow.
Such a noble height of rapture has been won
That to-day's delight can dream not of to-morrow:
All things worship at the altar of the sun.
And they pause, half wild with wonder and with bliss—
(While the river whispers, “See them!” to the sedges)
And their lips seem soft as velvet, as they kiss.
Blue the sky is, clear of cloud and free of sorrow.
Such a noble height of rapture has been won
That to-day's delight can dream not of to-morrow:
All things worship at the altar of the sun.
110
Yet the sweetness of the season gaineth sweetness
From the thought of loving Jesus in the sky.
Passion wins its utmost rapture and completeness
Realizing that a loving heart is nigh.
What is spring without the feeling that a Father
Watches, blesses, every noble action done?
—Sends the flowers of woman's love for man to gather!
Sends the daisies to be gathered by the sun!
From the thought of loving Jesus in the sky.
Passion wins its utmost rapture and completeness
Realizing that a loving heart is nigh.
What is spring without the feeling that a Father
Watches, blesses, every noble action done?
—Sends the flowers of woman's love for man to gather!
Sends the daisies to be gathered by the sun!
111
II. SONG OF SUMMER
Grand and glorious is the season of the roses.
Spring has passed, but stronger sunlight gilds the corn.
On the silver stream the lily's head reposes,
And the ripple lifts it tenderly at morn.
Love has deepened, with the deepening of the season.
Love has strengthened, with the passing of the hours.
Love has grown beyond the fear of change or treason.
Love has stolen the glow and glory of the flowers.
Spring has passed, but stronger sunlight gilds the corn.
On the silver stream the lily's head reposes,
And the ripple lifts it tenderly at morn.
Love has deepened, with the deepening of the season.
Love has strengthened, with the passing of the hours.
Love has grown beyond the fear of change or treason.
Love has stolen the glow and glory of the flowers.
Man and woman understand and love each other.
Through the silent leafy summer lanes they wend,
Hand in hand. The blue sky smiles down like a mother
And the gentle breeze of summer seems a friend.
For in spring the heart of man was full of gladness,
But in summer rapture gathers all its powers.
Who can dream of sorrow, who can think on sadness,
While the sky is full of stars, the fields of flowers?
Through the silent leafy summer lanes they wend,
Hand in hand. The blue sky smiles down like a mother
And the gentle breeze of summer seems a friend.
For in spring the heart of man was full of gladness,
But in summer rapture gathers all its powers.
Who can dream of sorrow, who can think on sadness,
While the sky is full of stars, the fields of flowers?
112
Yet the summer and its glory overflowing,
Sun and moon and starlit height of purple sky,
Silver stream and forest deep and blossoms blowing,
All will pass. Yes, even roses have to die!
But the sweetness of the Christ grows ever dearer
As life's autumn strips the greenery of the bowers:
And the beauty of another land seems nearer
As the beauty of the summer quits the flowers.
Sun and moon and starlit height of purple sky,
Silver stream and forest deep and blossoms blowing,
All will pass. Yes, even roses have to die!
But the sweetness of the Christ grows ever dearer
As life's autumn strips the greenery of the bowers:
And the beauty of another land seems nearer
As the beauty of the summer quits the flowers.
113
III. SONG OF AUTUMN
When the leaves are whirling through the forest olden,
Grey and green and brown and crimson dying leaves,
Sodden leaves that only yesterday were golden,
While the autumn wind-swept foliage sways and heaves,
There are ghosts of lovers through the forest questing,
Seeking vainly as their weary footsteps stray,
Haunts they loved when all around the birds were nesting
And the air was sweet with fragrance of the may.
Grey and green and brown and crimson dying leaves,
Sodden leaves that only yesterday were golden,
While the autumn wind-swept foliage sways and heaves,
There are ghosts of lovers through the forest questing,
Seeking vainly as their weary footsteps stray,
Haunts they loved when all around the birds were nesting
And the air was sweet with fragrance of the may.
Weary ghosts they are of former happy lovers.
Now they find no mossy carpet for their feet
Spread within the oaken glades and hazel covers:
Pale and tearful, in the forest-depths they meet.
“Here was once a yellow primrose-bank,” they mutter.
“Here we built a golden cowslip-throne,” they say.
“From yon thicket, with a chirrup and a flutter,
Dashed the brown thrush thro' the white and crimson may.”
Now they find no mossy carpet for their feet
Spread within the oaken glades and hazel covers:
Pale and tearful, in the forest-depths they meet.
“Here was once a yellow primrose-bank,” they mutter.
“Here we built a golden cowslip-throne,” they say.
“From yon thicket, with a chirrup and a flutter,
Dashed the brown thrush thro' the white and crimson may.”
114
Is there any peace of mind for those who ponder
In the autumn on the summer's vanished bloom,
Save in hope that every blossom-spirit, yonder
Far in heaven, exults triumphant o'er the tomb?
Is there hope for human spirits pale and breathless
With the struggle and the strife of every day?
Just the hope that love's true flowers in heaven are deathless,
Though death withers all the sweetness of the may.
In the autumn on the summer's vanished bloom,
Save in hope that every blossom-spirit, yonder
Far in heaven, exults triumphant o'er the tomb?
Is there hope for human spirits pale and breathless
With the struggle and the strife of every day?
Just the hope that love's true flowers in heaven are deathless,
Though death withers all the sweetness of the may.
115
IV. SONG OF WINTER
Dreary snows are all around us in the gardens,
And the starlit frosty sky is chilly blue.
On the silent stream the stifling cold ice hardens:
The moon shivers at the air it travels through.
Yet the sweetest of the seasons is the winter:
Winter well may smile at summer's ardent scorn.
When the air was keen with many an icy splinter,
Love with summer at the heart of him was born.
And the starlit frosty sky is chilly blue.
On the silent stream the stifling cold ice hardens:
The moon shivers at the air it travels through.
Yet the sweetest of the seasons is the winter:
Winter well may smile at summer's ardent scorn.
When the air was keen with many an icy splinter,
Love with summer at the heart of him was born.
Love hath summer in his spirit never dying.
Does it matter if the wild wind through the sprays
Dashes, leaving all the tossing branches sighing?
Does it matter if the snow-drifts pile the ways?
For in winter through a humble heart and lowly
God revealed himself to man. On Christmas morn
Jesus Christ the pure of soul, the Saviour holy,
Heedless of the bitter winter wind, was born.
Does it matter if the wild wind through the sprays
Dashes, leaving all the tossing branches sighing?
Does it matter if the snow-drifts pile the ways?
For in winter through a humble heart and lowly
God revealed himself to man. On Christmas morn
Jesus Christ the pure of soul, the Saviour holy,
Heedless of the bitter winter wind, was born.
116
And the winter of the spirit—bitter sorrow—
Who can banish, who can temper, if not he?
Who but Jesus can remind us that to-morrow
Shall be sunshine, though murk night is on the sea?
For in winter, in the season when the berry
Gleams, bright scarlet on the holly and the thorn,
Men may feast, the saddest spirits may make merry:
In the winter night the Prince of light was born.
Who can banish, who can temper, if not he?
Who but Jesus can remind us that to-morrow
Shall be sunshine, though murk night is on the sea?
For in winter, in the season when the berry
Gleams, bright scarlet on the holly and the thorn,
Men may feast, the saddest spirits may make merry:
In the winter night the Prince of light was born.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |