The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| EARLY SONNETS |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
17
EARLY SONNETS
19
“THEIR WHITE SAILS FILL THE PURPLE AND THE SOMBRE SEAS!”
(Moncure Conway.)
I.
“The purple seas!” and through the misty mountains
Flutter the first advances of their feet;
And through deep forests, and in openings sweet,
By many flower-spotted glades and fountains,
They press straight forward, stedfast, as is meet:
A youthful band with foreheads wrinkled, aged
With fervent thoughts with which they have engaged,
Yet having Youth's fair footsteps strong and fleet.
Flutter the first advances of their feet;
And through deep forests, and in openings sweet,
By many flower-spotted glades and fountains,
They press straight forward, stedfast, as is meet:
A youthful band with foreheads wrinkled, aged
With fervent thoughts with which they have engaged,
Yet having Youth's fair footsteps strong and fleet.
I saw them, and my soul was very glad,
And burst into a rosy shout of song,
And scattered scented petals on the throng,
Ready to kiss the lips that seeméd sad,
Ready to weep for sorrows each had had,
And smile for crowns that each should wear ere long!
And burst into a rosy shout of song,
And scattered scented petals on the throng,
Ready to kiss the lips that seeméd sad,
Ready to weep for sorrows each had had,
And smile for crowns that each should wear ere long!
20
II.
They are leaving fast the ancient standing-places,
The altars and the churches and the creeds,
And for each drop from every heart that bleeds
Blossom a hundred flowers, a hundred graces!
I watched them,—and a light was on their faces
Even such that star nor sunshine any needs:
A light that leads the way to burning deeds
And sets a hero running stalwart races.
The altars and the churches and the creeds,
And for each drop from every heart that bleeds
Blossom a hundred flowers, a hundred graces!
I watched them,—and a light was on their faces
Even such that star nor sunshine any needs:
A light that leads the way to burning deeds
And sets a hero running stalwart races.
These are the founders of the future; they
Have set against their losses a great gain,
Nor caréd any longer to remain
Bowing beneath a dome of carven clay,
And therefore must they emigrate to day
Through penury and solitude and pain.
Have set against their losses a great gain,
Nor caréd any longer to remain
Bowing beneath a dome of carven clay,
And therefore must they emigrate to day
Through penury and solitude and pain.
1871.
21
THE PASSIONATE CITY
To feel the passionate city throb and flow
Throughout one, every street and every soul,
The power of the blood that sways the whole,
Its agony of yearning and of woe,
And great unutterable fervent glow
Of gladness leaping forward past control—
This is to sip the nectar of a bowl
A giant might be jubilant to know!
Throughout one, every street and every soul,
The power of the blood that sways the whole,
Its agony of yearning and of woe,
And great unutterable fervent glow
Of gladness leaping forward past control—
This is to sip the nectar of a bowl
A giant might be jubilant to know!
Yet over and above I have a sense
Of Beauty, of my Lady, over all
Supreme, and in a solitude intense
Yet peopled with creation, I can call
Most close upon her, leaping every wall
Of separation, each dividing fence.
Of Beauty, of my Lady, over all
Supreme, and in a solitude intense
Yet peopled with creation, I can call
Most close upon her, leaping every wall
Of separation, each dividing fence.
1871.
22
THE NEW JERUSALEM
I.
In common with humanity I soughtA New Jerusalem with golden floors,
And diamond-studded opal-handled doors,
And held our grimy earth for less than nought:
Some echo of the melody I thought
That through the pearly gates incessant pours,
A soft suggested hint of heavenly oars
On crystal streams, attentive ears had caught.
But now the vision fadeth, and instead
I find my longed-for city very clear
In spite of London fog before me here,
And here a crown, it may be, for my head
Of truer import than the splendours shed
On saints by former creeds accounted dear.
23
II.
No city sent from heaven as a brideIs mine, but poor, and needing the attire
That I may weave for her in songs of fire
Before she can be unto love allied,
Meet for a hero's and a husband's side,
Able towards her own sunset to aspire.
I found her draggled, slip-shod, in the mire,
Her pure potential sovereignty denied,
And vowed myself to raise her; therefore I,
Brought down from Isis unto where the Thames
For many an arch her stately descent stems,
Will celebrate my London till I die,
If haply o'er her head without a sigh
Some day may flame the sunset diadems.
24
III.
I may not be her champion unlessI prove my worth in heat of sorest fight.
Oh! I would suffer with her through the night,
And share her agony and great distress,
And sober crape-embroidered mourning dress,
If so I might partake her bridal bright,
And when she riseth, clothed in power and white,
She might acknowledge me with one caress!
Sweet city, take me; here am I, not strong
As some men count strength,—yet I love thee well,
And hand in hand with thee will traverse hell,
And penetrate the utmost realms of wrong,
That so the road to heaven in my song
And purity I may be meet to tell.
1871.
25
THE CHOICE
I.
Two women stood before me, and I heardA voice that said, “Look well, consider, choose.”
The one wore dainty feet in golden shoes,
And head made bright with plumes of tropic bird,
And written on her brow that who preferred
To dwell with her in heaven should straightway lose
The sound of earth's distress; in quiet hues
The other clad, my heart the sooner stirred,
For in her I was swift to recognise
My pale sweet city, and she looked to me
With mute appealing in her stricken eyes,
And, brushing Paradise aside, “I see,”
Said I, “my Lady in this lowly guise;
My choice is made already,—I love thee.”
26
II.
Then Paradise was angry, and she turnedWith a majestic tossing of her head.
Not through those golden gates shall I be led:
No home for me in that high city spurned,
Nor choice amid the costly tapers burned
That round about sweet wealth of incense shed,
Nor any cunning cloak of white or red,
Nor harp for which my former spirit yearned.
But, hearken all, for here is my reward:
In that I took the lowly for my bride,
The humble present, she hath made me lord
Of many a future season's pomp and pride,
And made me master of her keen-edged sword
Of song, to wear in triumph at my side.
27
III.
In that I let the lyres and lutestrings go,Enamoured of no beatific strain,
And here elected, stedfast, to remain
Where tides of silver Thames do ebb and flow,
For recompence I have been given to know
The beauty of the bud within the pain
We suffer, that the weary London rain
Shall bring to bloom at last, as white as snow.
I sacrificed the past, and I behold
A present greater,—let the future wait,
And left my lyre beside the city gate
For an obliging rose-winged saint to hold,
And lo! no organ now but doth unfold
Dreams far too golden-glorious to relate.
1871.
28
THE CROWNLESS CITY
Not Florence, nor the Baian bay, I sing,
Nor sunny vine-clad slopes of southern France
Nor gardens where the Spanish maidens dance
With laughter in a white-armed starry ring,
Not unto Palestine, nor Greece, I cling,
As many with a longing backward glance,—
Through London's flowerless gloom my steps advance,
The crownless city seeks a crownless king.
Nor sunny vine-clad slopes of southern France
Nor gardens where the Spanish maidens dance
With laughter in a white-armed starry ring,
Not unto Palestine, nor Greece, I cling,
As many with a longing backward glance,—
Through London's flowerless gloom my steps advance,
The crownless city seeks a crownless king.
Mine are the suns of morning, looming red
Through misery and smoke, till gleams of blue,
Occasional at midday, glisten through,
Across our patient care-worn foreheads shed:
Mine is the sorrow,—mine the imperial head,
The sinless locks, of London born anew.
Through misery and smoke, till gleams of blue,
Occasional at midday, glisten through,
Across our patient care-worn foreheads shed:
Mine is the sorrow,—mine the imperial head,
The sinless locks, of London born anew.
1871.
29
THE SUNSET-SHIELD
Fear not, my poet brothers,—Beauty guards
With shield of sunset and with waving wings
The self-forgetful soul of him that sings,
And draws a charméd circle round her bards.
Tradition your development retards:
Burst bands of custom, wander forth alone,
Subdue the nations, make the earth a throne,
Shake falsehood as one shakes a house of cards.
With shield of sunset and with waving wings
The self-forgetful soul of him that sings,
And draws a charméd circle round her bards.
Tradition your development retards:
Burst bands of custom, wander forth alone,
Subdue the nations, make the earth a throne,
Shake falsehood as one shakes a house of cards.
Some higher work the world's a right to ask
Than floods of flowery diction, rivers of rhyme:
Expression, after all, is but a mask
Concealing some reality sublime;
Assert your birth-right, bend ye to your task,
Inheritors of history, heirs of time.
Than floods of flowery diction, rivers of rhyme:
Expression, after all, is but a mask
Concealing some reality sublime;
Assert your birth-right, bend ye to your task,
Inheritors of history, heirs of time.
1870.
30
THE POET
He is fallen, the poet, from his high estate.
How he hath fallen, God knows, and only God.
The high ethereal stairs he would have trod
Have vanished from beneath his feet of late,
And he is vanquished by uneasy fate,
And sinks upon a damp inferior sod,
And, mournful, breaks his sweet divining rod,
And sighs a broken-hearted sad “Too late!”
How he hath fallen, God knows, and only God.
The high ethereal stairs he would have trod
Have vanished from beneath his feet of late,
And he is vanquished by uneasy fate,
And sinks upon a damp inferior sod,
And, mournful, breaks his sweet divining rod,
And sighs a broken-hearted sad “Too late!”
Ah, God, make poets not, or make them wise,
Girded with power to accomplish their high ends.
Thou givest them that fire within their eyes
That flush of songfulness,—and why should one
Whose force from first to last on thee depends,
While dawn still glimmers, lose faith in the sun?
Girded with power to accomplish their high ends.
Thou givest them that fire within their eyes
That flush of songfulness,—and why should one
Whose force from first to last on thee depends,
While dawn still glimmers, lose faith in the sun?
1870.
31
TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON, OUR LEADER
Great prophet of the West! I hardly know
How to express the reverence that I feel,
The thousand thoughts that through my spirit steal.
Your words are living words,—they flicker and flow,
Dance phantom-dances, vanish, come and go:
To brain at once and spirit they appeal.
Though temples totter and pale churches reel,
You and the stars pace calmly to and fro.
How to express the reverence that I feel,
The thousand thoughts that through my spirit steal.
Your words are living words,—they flicker and flow,
Dance phantom-dances, vanish, come and go:
To brain at once and spirit they appeal.
Though temples totter and pale churches reel,
You and the stars pace calmly to and fro.
This one thing I will say that to my mind
Your rounded periods are always new,
A something fresh invariably I find,
Although by heart I thought the words I knew
The words themselves remain so deeply true
One feels as if before one had been blind.
Your rounded periods are always new,
A something fresh invariably I find,
Although by heart I thought the words I knew
The words themselves remain so deeply true
One feels as if before one had been blind.
1870.
32
IN MEMORY OF PATRICK BRANWELL BRONTË, GENIUS
I pay a sorrowful tribute to the sun
Of genius overcast, and downward hurled,—
Its flag no sooner hoisted than 'twas furled,
Its flame no sooner kindled than 'twas done,
Its race no sooner started than 'twas run,
And love no sooner tasted than 'twas sour,
And fruit of beauty faded with the flower,
Great things attempted, yet how little won.
Of genius overcast, and downward hurled,—
Its flag no sooner hoisted than 'twas furled,
Its flame no sooner kindled than 'twas done,
Its race no sooner started than 'twas run,
And love no sooner tasted than 'twas sour,
And fruit of beauty faded with the flower,
Great things attempted, yet how little won.
A poor pale finger-post he seems to stand,
Saying to men that follow in his wake,
“In front of me there lies a lonely land.
One of two courses, brothers, you must take:
Either for emptiness yourself forsake,
Or hold your whole self in tenacious hand.”
Saying to men that follow in his wake,
“In front of me there lies a lonely land.
One of two courses, brothers, you must take:
Either for emptiness yourself forsake,
Or hold your whole self in tenacious hand.”
1870.
33
ON LOOKING AT A PORTRAIT OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË, BY RICHMOND
Wonderful eyes! a leaping fire behind
Burns, and at seasons flames the face-veil through;
As burst their cloudy curtain gleams of blue
When, on a sudden, lo! the sun has shined.
Passion and strong repression-power combined
I see before me,—and a depth as well
That but a hint of what it had to tell
Has cast upon the surface of her mind.
Burns, and at seasons flames the face-veil through;
As burst their cloudy curtain gleams of blue
When, on a sudden, lo! the sun has shined.
Passion and strong repression-power combined
I see before me,—and a depth as well
That but a hint of what it had to tell
Has cast upon the surface of her mind.
They are not easy natures, these, to grasp
Complete in comprehension, nor do they
Hold their own power circled in a clasp.
They only see the fruit from day to day
That ripens, and abstruser find themselves
Than any book they have upon their shelves.
Complete in comprehension, nor do they
Hold their own power circled in a clasp.
They only see the fruit from day to day
That ripens, and abstruser find themselves
Than any book they have upon their shelves.
1870.
34
GOOD-NIGHT!
Good-night, my hero! I shall dream of you—
Ah me, how I do love the eventide,
And shadows that across the surface ride
Of the lawn! when you were absent, soldier true,
I heard your voice in every breeze that blew,
And used to shudder at a noise of nights,
And tremble, silly one, at simple sights:
But, now you're here, sweet, everything is new.
Ah me, how I do love the eventide,
And shadows that across the surface ride
Of the lawn! when you were absent, soldier true,
I heard your voice in every breeze that blew,
And used to shudder at a noise of nights,
And tremble, silly one, at simple sights:
But, now you're here, sweet, everything is new.
I love the lawn that dreary seemed before;
The very moths and bats are friendly things
And seem to wave a greeting in their wings,
And noises of the night alarm no more.
The sorrow and the loneliness is o'er:
A maiden wept once,—now behold she sings!
The very moths and bats are friendly things
And seem to wave a greeting in their wings,
And noises of the night alarm no more.
The sorrow and the loneliness is o'er:
A maiden wept once,—now behold she sings!
1870.
35
WRITTEN AFTER AN APPARENT FRENCH VICTORY
A victory at last! and over France
There runs a sound as of a sudden sigh,
A low tumultuous inarticulate cry,
As when one wakeneth with a startled glance
While yet the fiends of some dream-vision dance,
Retaining devilish might to terrify,
Across his brain, and meets the quiet eye
Of watchful woman, sees her steps advance.
There runs a sound as of a sudden sigh,
A low tumultuous inarticulate cry,
As when one wakeneth with a startled glance
While yet the fiends of some dream-vision dance,
Retaining devilish might to terrify,
Across his brain, and meets the quiet eye
Of watchful woman, sees her steps advance.
And, as he sigheth low for sheer relief,
And longeth for the cool clear lips of day,
So with one victory vanisheth away
From France the nervous nightmare of her grief,
And, by the bedside, stands her chosen chief—
The young Republic—in the morning grey.
And longeth for the cool clear lips of day,
So with one victory vanisheth away
From France the nervous nightmare of her grief,
And, by the bedside, stands her chosen chief—
The young Republic—in the morning grey.
1870.
36
DEATH OF A FLY
A fly has just achieved a piteous fateBefore me, slaughtered in a candle-flame.
He has fulfilled, no doubt, his being's aim,
And won possession by the fiery gate
Of martyrdom of joys that may await
In paradise the flies of noble name.
At all events he has not come to shame,
That I am sure of, nor has cause to rate
The universal justice; if he had,
Arms of protesting we would run to take
And go to war with Heaven for the sake
Of one poor fly—for then the whole were bad,
And Beauty clothed in sackcloth would be sad
For the infliction of a single needless ache!
1870.
37
GOD'S NOVEL
God's novels all end well! who does not know
The trembling passionate turning of the pages
Of some sweet story, as the varied stages
Proceed through interchange of joy and woe?
This world of ours is fashioned even so,
Save that, although all eyelashes are wet,
The wiping of the tears we see not yet,
The lines that stand the last ones in the row.
The trembling passionate turning of the pages
Of some sweet story, as the varied stages
Proceed through interchange of joy and woe?
This world of ours is fashioned even so,
Save that, although all eyelashes are wet,
The wiping of the tears we see not yet,
The lines that stand the last ones in the row.
But as the “Happy Marriage” in the play
Makes each content and every reader sigh
With long-delayed relief, so some glad day,
Some season of deliverance by and bye,
The “Bridal of the World” shall flutter nigh,
And sorrow's wings as surely flee away.
Makes each content and every reader sigh
With long-delayed relief, so some glad day,
Some season of deliverance by and bye,
The “Bridal of the World” shall flutter nigh,
And sorrow's wings as surely flee away.
1870.
38
THE RAINBOW CAUGHT AND HELD
Love is not love that cannot stand and say,“What I have suffered I would bear again
And ten times more, if so the slightest pain
From finger-tip of thine to soothe away
I might be able, pleasure to convey
In tiniest crimson tingle of a vein:
Yea, sweetheart, stony-hearted would remain
Unloved, unkissed, for ever and a day,
If so the Beauty might be nearer brought
That I have seen between the palms of dreams.”
Till we are one with our ideal gleams,
And bear upon our brows the rainbow sought
By snatching baffled hands of eager thought,
Apart from us somehow our passion seems.
1871.
39
THE POET'S CROWN
First over him my Lady placed a handWhite as a lily in a moonlit lane,
And passed a perfume over him for pain,
And bound about his brow a linen band,
And folding of it with her breath she fanned
That tight and tenderly it might remain,
And with her hair she cleanséd every stain
Of blood and weariness, and, after, spanned
His forehead with the bays, and, after this,
When he could only weep, and, weeping, sigh
“O God, my Mother, thou hast sent me bliss
Too great to bear alive, so I must die,”
To his lips shuddering were her own brought nigh
In sweetest condescension of a kiss.
1871.
40
THE UNIVERSE-BRIDE
In strange deep fashion God himself bestows
Creation as a spotless bride on each,
And, pale with coming pleasure beyond speech,
Himself unrobes her shoulder as the snows,
Himself unveils the countenance that glows
As moonlight cast across an August beach,
Or as the golden tremulous streams that reach
The shore, when sunset's beaker overflows.
“Is she not beautiful?” he says, and stands
Watching the eager glances of the boy
For whom this ivory sweet-shapen toy
He fashioned into life between his hands,
And wove her hair in silken subtlest strands,
And chose a marble block without alloy.
Creation as a spotless bride on each,
And, pale with coming pleasure beyond speech,
Himself unrobes her shoulder as the snows,
Himself unveils the countenance that glows
As moonlight cast across an August beach,
Or as the golden tremulous streams that reach
The shore, when sunset's beaker overflows.
“Is she not beautiful?” he says, and stands
Watching the eager glances of the boy
For whom this ivory sweet-shapen toy
He fashioned into life between his hands,
And wove her hair in silken subtlest strands,
And chose a marble block without alloy.
41
“Is she not beautiful, this marble maid
Creation, with her rivers and her stars,
And fiery-tinted azure-circled cars,
And palms that canopy a perfect shade?
Come, touch her hair, be daring,—not a braid
But hath the perfume of the western seas:
Sweet savours as of cinnamon in these
I tenderly invented and conveyed.
O thou that hast her, see thou hold her fast,
She is Infinite before thee; not for time,
For endless aspiration of a rhyme
That trembles not at death's bleak-biting blast,
For issue of a trumpet-volume vast
Of Song, for valour of long steps to climb,
Creation, with her rivers and her stars,
And fiery-tinted azure-circled cars,
And palms that canopy a perfect shade?
Come, touch her hair, be daring,—not a braid
But hath the perfume of the western seas:
Sweet savours as of cinnamon in these
I tenderly invented and conveyed.
O thou that hast her, see thou hold her fast,
She is Infinite before thee; not for time,
For endless aspiration of a rhyme
That trembles not at death's bleak-biting blast,
For issue of a trumpet-volume vast
Of Song, for valour of long steps to climb,
“I give her to thee; see thou hold her fair
With most chaste pressure of most perfect hands,
Lest lips should shrivel as they kiss the bands
Of beautiful exuberance of hair:
Believe me, brother, such a bride is rare,
That marble-bodied Universe that stands
Before thee,—and green eloquence of lands,
And flowers tropical she can prepare.
And she can crown thee; not with any bays
Of earth, poor pointed dark-hued sorry leaves,
But with the pressure of immediate praise
Of lips, and every arrow-hilt that grieves
Thy soul she can extract,—she sits and weaves
The golden chains of everlasting lays.
With most chaste pressure of most perfect hands,
Lest lips should shrivel as they kiss the bands
Of beautiful exuberance of hair:
Believe me, brother, such a bride is rare,
That marble-bodied Universe that stands
Before thee,—and green eloquence of lands,
42
And she can crown thee; not with any bays
Of earth, poor pointed dark-hued sorry leaves,
But with the pressure of immediate praise
Of lips, and every arrow-hilt that grieves
Thy soul she can extract,—she sits and weaves
The golden chains of everlasting lays.
“Is she not beautiful? her body fair
I chiselled far away before the earth
Came as an infant to primeval birth,
And plumes of Paradise-birds to form her hair
Were ready, and of tender lashes rare
Of soft-eyed stags there was not any dearth,
And many spirits moulded I in mirth
One perfect after-spirit to prepare.
My eye was on this meeting from afar,
And hidden in the green of forest leaves,
Or under shadows of the golden sheaves
No hand of man had gathered, this sweet star
I chose for you, of all the suns that are
Strung upon heaven's bright blue nodding eaves
I chiselled far away before the earth
Came as an infant to primeval birth,
And plumes of Paradise-birds to form her hair
Were ready, and of tender lashes rare
Of soft-eyed stags there was not any dearth,
And many spirits moulded I in mirth
One perfect after-spirit to prepare.
My eye was on this meeting from afar,
And hidden in the green of forest leaves,
Or under shadows of the golden sheaves
No hand of man had gathered, this sweet star
I chose for you, of all the suns that are
Strung upon heaven's bright blue nodding eaves
43
“Like swallows' nests beneath a roof; this sight,
This vision of the Universe for you,
This sweet dividing of the veil of blue,
That so thou mightest adore a Goddess white,
This soft uplifting of her lashes bright
To give thy vehemence a long first view,
This glory that for ever shall renew
The God-sent magic of the nuptial night:
This perfect pure enfolding of chaste arms,
And breath of roses heavy on the air,
And delicate unbinding of her hair,
And golden palace of perpetual charms,
And swift transition from life's lone alarms
To peace in bowers unutterably fair.”
This vision of the Universe for you,
This sweet dividing of the veil of blue,
That so thou mightest adore a Goddess white,
This soft uplifting of her lashes bright
To give thy vehemence a long first view,
This glory that for ever shall renew
The God-sent magic of the nuptial night:
This perfect pure enfolding of chaste arms,
And breath of roses heavy on the air,
And delicate unbinding of her hair,
And golden palace of perpetual charms,
And swift transition from life's lone alarms
To peace in bowers unutterably fair.”
1871.
44
THE SOUL
The soul shall burst her fetters
At last, and shall be
As the stars, as the wind, as the night,
As the sun, as the sea.
At last, and shall be
As the stars, as the wind, as the night,
As the sun, as the sea.
The soul shall struggle and stand
In the end swift and free
As the stars, as the wind, as the night,
As the sun, as the sea.
In the end swift and free
As the stars, as the wind, as the night,
As the sun, as the sea.
The soul shall be crowned and calm,
Eyes fearless—and she
Shall be queen of the wind and the night,
Stars, sun, and the sea.
Eyes fearless—and she
Shall be queen of the wind and the night,
Stars, sun, and the sea.
1871.
45
TWO SONNETS
I.
THE STORM OF BEAUTY
At times my lady seizes me and flings
Her arms around mine unreluctant form
And wraps me for a season in the storm,
The thunder of the closing of her wings,
And I am as some white glad bird that clings
Against a purple cloud-breast, and I weep,
And strive with shuddering fainting hands to keep
That vision of unutterable things.
Her arms around mine unreluctant form
And wraps me for a season in the storm,
The thunder of the closing of her wings,
And I am as some white glad bird that clings
Against a purple cloud-breast, and I weep,
And strive with shuddering fainting hands to keep
That vision of unutterable things.
For she bends over me as some pure cloud,
And I am as a flower that will dare,
Being supremely weak, to face the air
That hangs above it as a sweet dim shroud;
Next, my strained body sobs with yearning, bowed
Beneath the fragrant tempest of her hair.
And I am as a flower that will dare,
Being supremely weak, to face the air
That hangs above it as a sweet dim shroud;
Next, my strained body sobs with yearning, bowed
Beneath the fragrant tempest of her hair.
46
II.
THE INEFFABLE FRAGRANCE
She sweeps across me like a fragrant wind
Laden with summer and a thousand fruits,
And countless messages of springing shoots,
Even as a gentle woman being blind,
But bearing in her bosom every kind
Of flower, and coloured leaf, and unctuous roots;
And as a fervent noise of answering lutes
Is the Æolian response of my mind
Blown by her spirit into endless song,
Hot with the sense of summer she conveys
From cornfields over which her hand delays
To gather fragrance as she sweeps along,
One with the winds and scents and sounds that throng
The odorous woods and hills on summer days.
1871.
47
SONNET To F. B.
Is all the world against thee? Then am I
Quite for thee, though I bitterly condemn
The sin that justifies their spite to them,
And drains the wells of thy fair spirit dry.
It is an English poet's part to die
For English womanhood at utter need:
My spirit, all on fire to intercede
For thy bruised spirit, hovers gently nigh.
Quite for thee, though I bitterly condemn
The sin that justifies their spite to them,
And drains the wells of thy fair spirit dry.
It is an English poet's part to die
For English womanhood at utter need:
My spirit, all on fire to intercede
For thy bruised spirit, hovers gently nigh.
What is it worth, the gift of praise men bring
To me the poet, while thou art in grief?
Lo! for thy sake I tear my laurel-leaf
And hush to solemn notes the lips that sing.
May God forgive me for those shameful hours,
When thou wast crowned with thorns, and I with flowers!
To me the poet, while thou art in grief?
Lo! for thy sake I tear my laurel-leaf
And hush to solemn notes the lips that sing.
May God forgive me for those shameful hours,
When thou wast crowned with thorns, and I with flowers!
July, 1876.
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