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Poems Real and Ideal

By George Barlow
Barlow, George

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DEDICATION. TO JOHN ALEXANDER BLENCOWE,
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MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS.
 XIV. 
SONNET XIV. TO IRELAND.
 XVII. 
SONNET XVII. THE GHOSTLY ARMIES.
 XIX. 
SONNET XIX. AN EASTERN YEARNING.
 XXI. 
SONNET XXI. GOD AND WOMAN.
 XXII. 
SONNET XXII. GOD.
 XXIII. 
SONNET XXIII. FORSAKEN.
 XXVII. 
SONNET XXVII. THE SONG-BRIDE.
 XXVIII. 
SONNET XXVIII. ALONE.
 XXIX. 
SONNET XXIX. RELIGION AND ART.
 XXX. 
SONNET XXX. IN ST. JAMES'S PARK.
collapse sectionXLIV, XLV, XLVI. 
SONNETS XLIV., XLV., XLVI. A MORAL VICTORY: AND ITS RESULT.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 XLVII. 
SONNET XLVII. ALL OVER AGAIN.
 LI. 
SONNET LI. FORGOTTEN JESUS.
 LIV. 
SONNET LIV. THE COQUETTE-WORLD.
 LVII. 
SONNET LVII. HEAVEN AND WOMAN.
 LIX. 
SONNET LIX. LOST RICHES.
  
SONNET. IN BOHEMIA: A CONTRAST.
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SONNETS.
 IV. 
IV. THE ONE STAR.
  
THY SPANISH LOVES.
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SEVEN SONNETS.
 II. 
II. CAPITAL PUNISHMENT.
 IV. 
IV. THE DAY OF THANKSGIVING: AFTER THE EGYPTIAN WAR OF 1882.
 VI. 
VI. FOR VICTOR HUGO'S EIGHTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY, FEBRUARY 26, 1883.
 VII. 
VII. WILLIAM GOULDSTONE.
  
A WINTER VISION.
  
A WINTER SONG.
  
AND YET.
  
MIRROR AND ROSE.
  
THE KING.
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TWO SONNETS.
 I. 
I. TO-NIGHT.
 II. 
II. ALONE.
  
A RUSSIAN WOMAN TO A RUSSIAN NIHILIST.
  
POETRY AND SCIENCE.
  
SOPHIA PEROVSKAIA.
  
GELIABOFF.
  
IRELAND TO ENGLAND.
 XX. 
SONNET XX. “IT IS GOD WE NEED.”
 XXI. 
SONNET XXI. “AND YET WE STRETCH OUR ARMS OUT TO THE HUMAN.”
  
THE DEEP LOVE.
  
SONNET. CHRIST'S ETERNAL POETHOOD.
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AUTUMN VOICES:
 I. 
I. THE LATER LOVE.
 II. 
II. THE ETERNAL BOYHOOD.
 IX. 
IX. THE SOUL-GAME.
 XII. 
XII. THE SWEETEST LOVE.
 XXII. 
XXII. AT LAST.
  
SONNET. CHRIST'S LOVE.
  
A VISION OF THE DEAD.
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LOVE-LYRICS.
 I. 
I. AFTER LONG MONTHS.
 II. 
II. “THY FACE.”
 III. 
III. “BEYOND.”
 IV. 
IV. “NEVER TIRED?”
 V. 
V. IN THE LATER DAYS.

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1

DEDICATION. TO JOHN ALEXANDER BLENCOWE,

My Oldest Friend.

Friend, when at Harrow twenty years ago,
Long ere my passion coveted the bays,
We wandered o'er the green hill's winding ways,
Our young hearts full of boyhood's eager glow,
We knew not what should be, nor sought to know:—
Now, somewhat of life's lengthening shadow strays
Across our path, and in the summer days
The perfume-laden winds more sadly blow.
But still the world is fair, though Harrow days
Are gone from us for ever; though no more
Will Isis break to silver at our oar
Or Cornish moorland purple meet our gaze.
Friend, let me give thee these my latest lays,
Full of old dreams of many a far-off shore.
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