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

Of joy, of summer days, of sweetness,
Of leaf-perfection, flower-completeness,
There comes an utter end:
All songs, all days of calm or laughter,
Are followed by a blank hereafter
Towards which their footsteps tend.

II

Of pleasure, happiness, soft weeping,
Of eager action, weary sleeping,
There comes alike the close:
To soft slim flower by roadside hilly,
To great majestic garden lily,
To red majestic rose.

212

III

There comes an end of all their glory;
Their petals fade, wax faint and hoary,
Are mixed with autumn hues:
The dying lessening woods are splendid,
Yet the bright tints throughout them blended
Are those that death's lips choose.

IV

There comes an end to noble summers;
Others flame forth, gay-garbed new-comers
With fire upon their cheeks;
But these too in the end lose gladness,
They mix their flowerlike souls with sadness,
They wither at cold weeks.

V

So is it with the green spring-hedges
And all the laughing river-edges
Whereby the glad nymphs roam:
So is it with the seas whose brightness
Vies with the sea-born goddess' whiteness,
The waves that guard her home.

213

VI

So is it with all lovers' splendour;
One day the love-god's hand is tender,—
The next day where is he?
Is not the next night starless, moonless,
The love-couch cold, the bleak airs tuneless,
Barren the waste wide sea?

VII

To-day the woman's kiss falls sweetly,
Captive she holds her love completely
And thrills him with her hair:
She is gone, she is flown away to-morrow,
And, for the sound of song, shrill sorrow
Sits wildly wailing there.

VIII

To-day the bright girl's words are gracious,
She leads the way through wood-glades spacious,
Her white hand leads love on;
She is changed and cold and all untender
Next morn,—and all that woodland splendour,
Lacking her grace, is gone.

214

IX

One day soft meadow-sweet abundant
Makes all the still dear woods redundant
With still intense perfume:
The next day all the North wind's madness
Has wrenched away the green woods' gladness,
Scattered the white flowers' bloom.

X

The blue sea with soft ripples ringeth
To-day, and hardly one cloud wingeth
Above the waves its way;
At night the black storm's evil warning
Scowls in the West,—grim tides next morning
Scour all the sands for prey.

XI

So too of sorrow itself an ending
Comes some day; towards that goal we tending
Lift up our hearts in praise,
Grateful that change itself not ever
Shall last,—that foiled downcast endeavour
Shall rest in quiet ways.

215

XII

There comes an end of sweetest treasure
Joy gathers up, of sorrow's measure,—
Of grief's low weary strain;
Of kisses God himself might covet
From mouth so sweet that God might love it;
Of parting's speechless pain.

1880.