The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
6
ELEVEN YEARS AGO
Eleven years since all the night was filled
With thee, and at thy spirit-touch I thrilled,
Long years of pain.
Ah! wilt thou never, blossom of my dream,
Within the palace of my slumber gleam,
Never again?
All seems so far, so long ago,
The sweet joy that I once did know!
With thee, and at thy spirit-touch I thrilled,
Long years of pain.
Ah! wilt thou never, blossom of my dream,
Within the palace of my slumber gleam,
Never again?
All seems so far, so long ago,
The sweet joy that I once did know!
Thou camest: and the solemn night was hushed,
And on thy face the rose of passion blushed,
So soft and fair;
And I was wrapt in ecstasy sublime,
And wafted upward towards an unknown clime
Of lordlier air;
And yet it seems so far to-day.
The heavens were blue. They are so grey!
And on thy face the rose of passion blushed,
So soft and fair;
And I was wrapt in ecstasy sublime,
And wafted upward towards an unknown clime
Of lordlier air;
And yet it seems so far to-day.
The heavens were blue. They are so grey!
7
Thou camest: and before thy feet fell dead
Each sin and terror, and thy queenly head
Lay close to mine;
And all the music of our ancient shore
Seemed round about our listening hearts to pour
A chant divine.
O Alice, o'er eleven years
The winged thought flies and wakens tears.
Each sin and terror, and thy queenly head
Lay close to mine;
And all the music of our ancient shore
Seemed round about our listening hearts to pour
A chant divine.
O Alice, o'er eleven years
The winged thought flies and wakens tears.
Thou camest.—Ah, what days have since been ours!
Thorns I have gathered. Hast thou gathered flowers?
How long and strange
The gloomy sun-forgotten years have been,
As day passed day and scene succeeded scene
With little change.
It seemeth now a far-off thing,
That night when all the stars did sing!
Thorns I have gathered. Hast thou gathered flowers?
How long and strange
The gloomy sun-forgotten years have been,
As day passed day and scene succeeded scene
With little change.
It seemeth now a far-off thing,
That night when all the stars did sing!
Thou wilt come? When the sunset o'er the sea
Brightens to solemn gold, wilt thou not be
Beside the waves?
When all the flowers of life are pale and dead,
Wilt thou not stand beside the last flower's head
With touch that saves?
I missed thee at life's dawn. Shall I
Possess thee once before I die?
Brightens to solemn gold, wilt thou not be
Beside the waves?
When all the flowers of life are pale and dead,
Wilt thou not stand beside the last flower's head
With touch that saves?
8
Possess thee once before I die?
Thou wilt come. Surely when the roses die,
And never more the lily's laugh is nigh,
In autumn days,—
When the great red leaves burn with autumn fire,
As I with lifelong measureless desire,
The woodland ways
Will smile to see thee pass along,
And, almost, wake to summer song!
And never more the lily's laugh is nigh,
In autumn days,—
When the great red leaves burn with autumn fire,
As I with lifelong measureless desire,
The woodland ways
Will smile to see thee pass along,
And, almost, wake to summer song!
Thine eyes of old were wet with tender love;
Passion fell like an aureole from above
Upon thy brow:
How is it with thee now long years have seen
Our forest haunts devoid of bard and queen,
Most songless now?
Wilt thou for ever tarry, sweet?
Is it not time that hands should meet?
Passion fell like an aureole from above
Upon thy brow:
How is it with thee now long years have seen
Our forest haunts devoid of bard and queen,
Most songless now?
Wilt thou for ever tarry, sweet?
Is it not time that hands should meet?
Thou camest through the night. Wilt thou not come
When all the blossoms of long labour bloom
Around thy path?
Lo! for the eleven long years I, day and night,
Have laboured, Alice, for thy soul's delight,
And faced the wrath
Of time, and conquered time, I deem:
Make love's truth sweeter than a dream!
When all the blossoms of long labour bloom
Around thy path?
9
Have laboured, Alice, for thy soul's delight,
And faced the wrath
Of time, and conquered time, I deem:
Make love's truth sweeter than a dream!
Feb. 13, 1882.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |