The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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LOVE-SONG
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
162
LOVE-SONG
Are the roses in the green lanes sweet,
The soft airs tender?
Are the red flowers bright among the wheat,
Clothed in rich splendour?
The soft airs tender?
Are the red flowers bright among the wheat,
Clothed in rich splendour?
Are the white waves swift upon the shores,
With feet advancing?
Is the moon a marvel when it pours
Forth light-floods dancing?
With feet advancing?
Is the moon a marvel when it pours
Forth light-floods dancing?
Are the stars a glory in the sky,—
The green sea-billows
A grandeur—is there sadness in the sigh
Of wind-swept willows?
The green sea-billows
A grandeur—is there sadness in the sigh
Of wind-swept willows?
Is there wonder in the melody of night,
And perfect glory
In the tossing of the long manes white
Of sea-waves hoary?
And perfect glory
In the tossing of the long manes white
Of sea-waves hoary?
163
Is there soothing in the North wind's kiss,
The South wind's greeting?
Is the West wind messenger of bliss,
Tired faces meeting?
The South wind's greeting?
Is the West wind messenger of bliss,
Tired faces meeting?
Is there healing in the great sweet hand
Of God which lifts us,
Redeeming from the waste far land
Where sorrow drifts us?
Of God which lifts us,
Redeeming from the waste far land
Where sorrow drifts us?
The roses on thy lips are sweet,
Thy soft kiss tender:
Thy feet shine swift among the wheat,
Garbed in white splendour.
Thy soft kiss tender:
Thy feet shine swift among the wheat,
Garbed in white splendour.
Thy steps are swift upon the shores,
Glad steps advancing:
Thy glance a marvel when it pours
Forth love-floods dancing.
Glad steps advancing:
Thy glance a marvel when it pours
Forth love-floods dancing.
Thine eyes are tender as the sky
That meets the billows:
Thy soul is gentle as the sigh
Of breeze-swept willows.
That meets the billows:
Thy soul is gentle as the sigh
Of breeze-swept willows.
164
There is wonder in thy melody by night,
And perfect glory
In the trembling of thy soft hands white
O'er love-tales hoary.
And perfect glory
In the trembling of thy soft hands white
O'er love-tales hoary.
There is soothing in thy soft soft kiss,
Balm in thy greeting:
Thy lips are messengers of bliss,
Long-lost lips meeting.
Balm in thy greeting:
Thy lips are messengers of bliss,
Long-lost lips meeting.
There is healing in thy sweet white hand,
O love, which lifts us,
Saving from the roseless land
Where life's storm drifts us.
O love, which lifts us,
Saving from the roseless land
Where life's storm drifts us.
1880.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |