The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
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JUNES AND DECEMBERS
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
216
JUNES AND DECEMBERS
I
Was it in June by woodland deepThat first love's soft enchanted sleep
Fell on the weary eyes that weep
This morning?
Was it when summer wrapt the hills
In tender mist, and slender rills
Danced down the dales a torrent fills,
Love-scorning?
217
II
Or did some girl make winter fairWith softest flush of flowerlike hair,
Draped in the scents the spring-months wear
With laughter?
Did all November smile to note
Pure tresses round the white neck float,
Though sorrow's wings with strokes that smote
Swept after?
III
Was wintry night a summer dream?Did flowers upon the bright lips teem,
The moon above the lovers gleam
With splendour?
Or was it where the soft tufts are
Of meadow-sweet that softer far
Her white hand glittered like a star
So tender?
218
IV
Was winter banished when her faceMade June-delight of all the place,
And summer gladness through her grace
Shone splendent?
Didst thou, O lover, feel that flowers
Are but for summer heedless hours,—
That on no skies are woman's bowers
Dependent?
V
What need hast thou of summer now?It smiles upon her cool clear brow;
June laughs upon her lips, I vow,
Rose-glorious!
If, waiting thee within thy bower,
Thou hast thy passionate woman-flower,
She makes all days, yea, every hour
Notorious.
219
VI
Divine with joy each hour she makes:Thou need'st not hunt spring through the brakes
Nor groan at eddying wild snow-flakes
Excessive;
Thou wilt not find one day too long
For love's sweet laughter, passion's song,—
Nor whistling blasts of North wind strong,
Oppressive.
VII
What matters how the day may pass,Or icicles on wintry grass,
If so the night's sweet hours amass
More pleasure?
It may be winter through the day,
But August-tresses round thee stray
At eve, and June-hands for thee play
Love's measure.
220
VIII
The great moon at the window-paneSome thought of winter doth retain;
The waves their wintry troubled strain
Are singing;
But love's dear couch within is spread
And heaped with summer petals shed
Not now on grass or mossy bed
Soft-clinging.
IX
O holier night than nights of JuneWhen over summer heavens the moon
Sails—night that sealest love's own boon
For ever,
What is the summer unto thee?
The white rose that awaiteth me
Summer on bank or lawn or lea
Held never.
221
X
No summer tenderest scent was e'erAs soft as that which in thine hair
Lurks, making heaven of all the air
I'm breathing:
No summer night was sweet as this,
Crowned with thine own close clinging kiss
And circled with the unfathomed bliss
Thou art wreathing.
XI
Thou art my June, my summer, sweet,—My flowerful exquisite retreat
Where, after months of toil and heat,
I rest me:
Thou art my bower of pure delight
Wherein I gather through the night
Soft mystic bloom:—oh, with love's might
Invest me!
222
XII
Crown me with love, thou summer rose,Though nigh our sleep the cold wind blows;
It will not reach us, as it goes
Sea-seeking:
Yea, nought can reach us now of pain
Within this holy wondrous fane
Where tender summer's lips again
Are speaking.
1880.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |