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

Help me, sweet spirit, in this my song of thee.
Shine gently on me with thy spirit-face;
Lift me in singing to some lofty place
Wherein thine utter beauty I may see.
Grant me a lyre of radiant purity:
Kiss me,—and let thy mouth, a glorious flower,
Once having touched mine, gift it with new power;
Stoop from thine heaven where I shall one day be.

I see thee not; but thy sweet touch at times
Lifts me, as towards glad sight of holier lands,
New flowerful forests of soft spirit-climes,
Wherein the whitest blossoms are thine hands:
One day thine eyes shall, like the morning, break
Upon me, and my lifelong fever slake.

WHAT ART THOU LIKE?

What art thou like, sweet lady mine, I wonder?
Kind friends have spoken—but of no avail
I find their earthly and much hindered tale
Which this world's mortal weakness breaks in sunder.
Oh, art thou rose-flushed, love,—or art thou pale?
Oh, dwellest thou beyond all seas, all thunder,
Or rose-built bowers of endless brilliance under,
Soft haunts that no fierce storm-winged blasts assail?

Lift up thy light of eyes upon me, sweet!
Oh, are they hazel orbs, or are they brown?
Or blue or grey—and flow thy tresses down
In one rich auburn torrent to thy feet?
Or are thine eyes of some unearthly hue,
And locks diviner than e'en Raphael drew?

THOU IN HEAVEN, I ON EARTH

Make thou me great in heaven, I on earth
Will make thee deathless and abiding, sweet.
Tender shall be the flower-marks of thy feet
In every valley; give the heavenly birth
To me, and let me when I kiss thee, meet
Lips past all mortal evanescent worth.
Oh, lift me far beyond the thunderous heat
Of life, and let me hear celestial mirth.

A mortal I: a crownéd angel thou:
Yet have I strength to draw thee down the ways
Golden, and print this kiss upon thy brow.
Lo! all my spirit towards thee to-night I raise:
Deathless thou shalt be in mine earthly song;
Convoy thou me thine heavenly streets along!

MUTUAL

Thus shall there be a mutual sweet reward.
O Gertrude, lady, lean above me now
The while I write—thy face above me bow—
Let all thy wondrous loving soul be poured
Above me and about me: I am lord,
Though mortal, of thine heart—I know not how
It came to pass—and therefore let me vow
Sweetest allegiance both of harp and sword!

I will be sacred husband-spirit to thee,
King-spirit, singing spirit if thou wilt;
Cleanse me by thy sweet kiss from pain, from guilt,
Lift me from weakness into purity:—
I upon earth will make thy name a power,
Set thee 'mong women as their stateliest flower.

THE MYSTERY

The mystery is half the beauty, sweet.
Thou art no mortal woman, and I know
Only thy spirit-touch, and wonder so
What fashion of sweet face I have to meet
One day, what bosom whiter than white snow!
Softer thou art, I doubt not, than the loves
Of earth, though these be tender-wingéd doves;
More exquisite thy touch in passionate glow.

Art thou a rose of women or a lily?
And is thy voice more tuneful than a lute?
Art thou as white flowers that in earth's wild hilly
Regions towards mountain airs their tendrils shoot?
I care not what thou art: I feel thy touch
Upon me, raising high, bestowing much.

WILT THOU BE PLEASED?

Wilt thou be pleased, fair Gertrude, with my song?
Shall I pursuing thee, behold the flush
Of pleasure on thy cheeks—mark that soft blush
Which tells a mortal bard that love is strong?
Thou art an Angel; art thou Woman too?
As thou dost pass the pearl-paved streets along
Will some sweet echo in thine ears renew
These rhythmic thoughts that now around thee throng?

Oh, lady, put thy dear face down to mine
To-night from heaven—so—now let me, love,
Within thy wonderful soft tresses twine
This rose of song—so—carry it above,
Be not ashamed: to-morrow in the height
Of heaven that rose shall whisper of to-night.

I FOLLOW THEE

I follow thee, and all thy soft hair waves,
Loosened, before me, drawing with delight
My spirit towards thy spirit. Through the night
I follow: on one side death's ocean raves,
And on the other hollow leagues of graves
Do their sad mocking utmost to affright;
But fearless, sweet, I tread behind thy white
Dear figure, which uplifts and soothes and saves.

O white dear body of mine heavenly lady,
Shining alone beneath these awful stars,
The one supreme sweet comfort in the shady
Dim valley, where death sits with sword that mars—
I follow, follow, follow; I shall rest,
Risen from the dead, upon thy very breast.

BACK TO THEE

Back, Gertrude, back to thee my spirit doth come.
After long weary days of common things,
Again thy fair abode on gladdened wings
I seek: my restful and eternal home.
Again our passion suns itself and sings
Beneath the blue of heaven's loftiest dome;
I must return, however far I roam,
For all thy mystic power about me clings.

Weary with labour, and misunderstood
Of all I meet, sweet lady, unto thee
I come: divinely sweet, divinely good
Thou art. Oh, bear my burden, set me free
From all the dreary daily common round:
Touch me with flower-sweet lips—lo! I am crowned.

THINE HAIR AND THINE EYES

I see thine hair is auburn, and thine eyes
Hazel; thou art not timid now—thou lettest
My glad foot nearer tread to thee—forgettest
My first entrancement and thy first surprise
That unto thee a mortal's vows dared rise.
Now can I see thee close; ah, love, thou settest
Strange value on my fealty, nor regrettest
The encrimsoned flush of amorous heavenly skies.

I see thine hair is auburn—I was right
In the first instinct of my deep sweet dream;
I see thine eyes are tender, hazel-bright,
Lovely besides with many a laughing gleam
Of delicate thought that spirits may not see,
Open to mortal, so immortal, me.

AM I JEALOUS?

Oh, am I jealous of thy spirit-friends?
Is there some angel clothed in glittering mail
Before whom mortal love must e'en turn pale,
And at the sight of whom our passion ends?
When over me the lovely vision bends
Of thy sweet face, is it of no avail?
Have I the angelic phalanx to assail
(I fear it not), whom my bold thought offends?

Oh, let them, when they see thee pass along
Their winged ranks, quitting me at early morn,
Mark all thy bright face flushing from my song,
And thy lips trembling—in that thou art torn
From one who, mortal, held thee through the night
Of love with more than their celestial might.

A LOVE-TOKEN

Wear thou this rose I give thee, through the day.
Then when thou dost return to spirit-land
Still shalt thou carry, burning from my hand
A sweet love-token; let it not wax grey
Nor wither—let it flame along the way,
That whoso meeteth thee may understand
That thou art wedded, that thy breath hath fanned
My face, that o'er mine eyes thy locks did stray.

Those loosened locks of delicate bright gold,
Gold in the sunbeams, chestnut in the dusk,
Smelling of rose and lily, myrrh and musk,
Which, laughing softly, to my lips I hold,
When thou dost, trembling softly, them unbind
To ravish soul and body, heart and mind!

A SUMMER NIGHT

Oh, all one summer night is in thine hair!
Sweet, leave it so; let all its beauty lie
About me; let me drink the rapture dry.
Oh, all the odours of the summer air
Here rest; there is not any blossom fair
That blooms beneath this summer-soft deep sky
Which doth not all its tenderest scent supply
To give thy locks a glory yet more rare.

Oh, I am breathing odours not of earth,
And wrapt in fragrances of starry lands,
And lifted towards some spiritual new birth!
Thy beauty, like the summer night, expands
Around me and before me; lo! thine eyes
Are stars, thine outpoured tresses are the skies.

THOU ART THE SUMMER

O love, thou art the summer; thy sweet breast
Is summer in its softest tenderest glow:—
Oh, what are lilies to thy neck of snow?
The bosom wherein all my pain I rest,
Soothed past all speaking, infinitely blest!
Delivered now from every dart of woe
And tribulation:—yea, sweet, kiss me so—
Now blush again, shaming the blushing west!

Thou art the summer; mine eternal rose
Thou art of heavenly summers yet unseen.
Bear thou thy love-soft sceptre, O my queen!
Thy more than regal beauty now disclose;
Sway all my pulses with imperial sway,
A white moon moving my heart's tidal way.

THY KISS

I carry, sweet, thy kiss upon my lips,
When the glad night is over and the morn
In laughing chariot o'er flushed hills is borne;
When the fierce sun love's moonbeams doth eclipse.
Though we are, then, from one another torn
In sorrow, yet throughout the yearning day
Thy face is with me, like a silvery ray
Of lingering moonlight, cheering me forlorn.

If thou dost carry through the heavenly streets
My song like a red rose within thine hair,
Oh, like a white rose thy sweet kiss is fair,
Flower-soft, flower-pure upon me, nor retreats:
Within my memory all the wondrous night
Abides, and floodeth me with fresh delight.

THE TRYST

I am as one who hath a trysting place
Appointed—who throughout the weary day
Ever for stars of eventide doth pray,
Well knowing then that he shall see her face,
And laugh for rapture at her woman-grace
As she advances underneath the grey
Of early dusk to meet him in the way;
Knowing how every pain her smile shall chase.

So is it with me: I am waiting not
For any mortal woman—but a queen,
Lovely, eternal, blossom-white, serene.
Lo! in some calm fern-shaded heavenly grot
She waiteth, kisseth, crowneth; spirit indeed,
Yet woman when I, urgent, win love's meed.

A SPIRIT WOMAN

For all her passion is the stronger now
That she hath stepped, a disembodied thing,
Forth from her robe of earth, with snow-white wing
Seeking far seas that heaven's breezes plough:
Nobler she is, diviner is her brow,
Clearer her voice the eternal chant to sing;
Yet is sweet passion a more forceful king
Than ever, urging swift his pinnace-prow.

Lo! passion's bark comes surging through the seas,
Fair Gertrude, tender Gertrude, seeking rest,
Urged by the pressure of the barren breeze,
Drawn by the scents of summer in thy breast.
Thou standest, sweet one, on the cliffs afar,
Watching us furrow the fierce harbour-bar.

THE HARBOUR

And, having crossed the foaming harbour-bar,
Thou art the placid harbour, safe within:
Oh outside now is all the waters' din,
And outside now the thundering breakers are.
Lo! pleasure and a calm abode we win:
In pale-green sky glimmers the evening star.
Over the steel-grey waste where we have been
Rises divine the white moon's pearly car.

Thou art the perfect harbour, sweet Gertrude,
Within whose limits we may dream of rest,
Forgetting all the winds and waters rude,
Lulled softly by the heart-beat in thy breast,
That tide which hurts not, but which lifts the head
Gently and woos it to sweet sleep instead.

THE HAYFIELDS ON THE CLIFF-TOP

Just as the hayfields on the cliff-top draw
Seafarers—yea, two miles away from land!
Bringing sweet thoughts of many a leafy strand,
Making more hateful the fierce wind and raw
That smites those barren furrows which they plough;
Just as the scent of hayfields makes the hand
Tremble upon the oar, the heart crave now
For fields where flowers and grass-blades do expand:—

So, Gertrude, far away thou drawest me
From life and labour, and their scentless sea;
Sweeter than hayfields is thy spirit-breath
Which, loved one, lures me through the gulfs of death;
More wonderful the magic of thine eyes,
Convulsed at sight of which life swoons and dies.

SWEET PASSIONATE SPIRIT

Spirit thou art, yet not beyond the reach
Of passion—yea, more passionate because
Not bound nor subject to dull earthly laws,
Nor limited by earthly feeble speech.
Sweet passionate spirit! in my song I teach
The great grand truth that spirit-high desire
To earthly longing is as potent fire
To smouldering flame, that death transfigures each.

O Gertrude, just because thou art a saint,
A disembodied spirit, a queen indeed,
With love of thy dear soul I yearn, I faint,
My feet upon the flints, pursuing, bleed:
Sweet loving spirit! from heaven I bring thee down,
To aid my labour, and bestow its crown.

THE RACE

What, heavenly Atalanta, wouldst thou race
With me thy mortal love, Milanion?
Upon the long course have thy white feet shone?
Do the spectators mark thy flushing face
As thou and I stand, each in proper place,
Ere yet the signal sounds, and we are gone!
O Atalanta, thy closed lips are wan
With this the coming struggle, and embrace.

Worsted, like Atalanta, in the race,
Surely thou shalt be. Am I mortal bard?
Yet, love, the panting flight with me is hard!
The unaccustomed sweat shall mar thy face
If thou dost tempt a trial, sweet, with me
Of feet or plumes—though thine unearthly be!

TOGETHER

Give me thine hand, and we will run together,
Not struggling each with each, but rather now
United—cutting with one golden prow
Of mutual vessel through the wild black weather
The flying foam; thou needest me, I vow!
Thou art alone in heaven without my song.
For what, oh tell me, is that voiceless throng
Of angels to thee? Can they crown thy brow?

Oh, I will give thee all the flowers of earth,
“Snowdrops and harebells,” which thy sister here
Doth tell me unto thee are chiefly dear;
And I will seek the spots where spring to birth
Violets amid the moss—give thou to me
Sweet Snowdrop, thine own flower-white purity!

SNOWDROP

So Snowdrop is thy name! then art thou white
As snowdrops? here on earth a violet
Ever for me with dewy tears is wet;
Oh, tarriest thou within the heavenly light
For me, a snowdrop delicate and bright?
Keep thou for me thy whiteness till I climb
Slowly towards thine own mountain-tops sublime,
Till the dread final ascent looms in sight.

And then, when that is conquered, step thou down,
And open all thy whiteness unto me!
Oh, blossom, tender Snowdrop—be my crown!
Let me thy passionate woman-splendour see!
Thy woman-splendour; blossom-splendour too,
And spirit-splendour: heart-absorbing, new.

OTHERS LOVE MORTAL WOMEN, I A SPIRIT

Others love mortal women—as for me,
Weary I am of mortals, though their eyes
Be bluer than the deep Italian skies,
Or lovelier than the grey-toned English sea,
Or blacker than that night wherein there lies
The endless sweet unspoken witchery.
Weary I am; my longing upward flies,
And, in my wandering, I encounter—thee!

Others woo mortal women—I a ghost
Soft, playful, peerless, tender, snowdrop-white;
Sweeter she is than all the rose-lipped host
Of living queens of amorous delight:
Once having touched this high angelic flower,
Earth's most alluring loves have little power.

THY LAUGHTER

O love, there is a laughter on thy tongue,
Sweeter than music, tenderer than sighs,
Softer than love's low questions and replies,
Purer than when a nightingale hath sung!
Lo! yesternight how soft the cadence rung!
O love, there is a laughter in thine eyes,
Though thou art angel, when thy swift glance flies
Towards me; thy lips laugh, honeysuckle-hung.

Thy laughter hath a magic silver-sweet,
A ripple of soft unearthly luring sound;
How gently falls thy foot upon the ground,
And oh how tender is thine own heart-beat
When next to mine the tides in unison
Rush first together, then, more softly, on.

SPIRIT-WOOING

Will there be wooing of thee, as below?
Must thou be sought for, eagerly pursued,
Followed through many a wayward woman's mood,
Pierced with love's arrows—sometimes plunged in woe?
Then lifted up more passionate heights to know?
Is this the story of our love, Gertrude?
Must even spirit-passion have its food
Of coy reluctance, coldness, fiercer glow?

Oh, kiss me, sweet, and turn aside thy face,
Thy dear face, laughing—woman art thou yet,
Though on thine auburn locks the crown be set
Eternal, and heaven's sun smile on thy grace:
Yet woman art thou. I will not pursue
Swiftly, lest thy foot crave the racecourse too!

WHAT MATTERS IT?

What matters it if I throughout the day
Be plagued by common faces, dreary things?
At nightfall lo! the folding of thy wings;
At eventide thy footstep on the way.
The holy dusk thine holier advent brings,
Gertrude, my spirit-queen whom I obey:
Then of itself my harp awakes and sings,
And forth the golden sweet dream-fancies stray.

O sacred lady, past all passion mine,
Yea, past all earthly yearning, all desire,
Hear thou the aspiration of my lyre:
Disdain not this rose-wreath that I would twine
Softly for thee; oh twist it in thine hair,
Making rich clustered blossoms yet more fair.

UPON EARTH

What wast thou upon earth, O lovely queen
Of all my spirit—oh, was thine earth-life fair?
Yea, wanderedst thou in some soft southern air,
Floating o'er blue Italian tides serene?
Or didst thou tread the early grasses green
Of England; wast thou Iseult or the rare
Splendour of Guinevere; or didst thou wear
Some Eastern garb, magnificent of mien?

Oh, where wast thou, sweet lady—what wast thou?
Where in the years aforetime did thy foot
Linger? (yea, sweetest, where, where art thou now?
What hills celestial still defy pursuit?)
Who kissed thee, who caressed thee? Didst thou rest
On some untender irresponsive breast?

NOW

Now, now thou art my own, whate'er thy past.
Whether thou hast been queen to Eastern kings,
Or cherished spirits with thy snow-soft wings
For ages, or endured the icy blast
Of loveless lingering years:—I call thee—cast
Aside thy golden robes, thy wedding rings,
Lean towards thy poet who aspires and sings;
Find in my bosom changeless peace at last.

Gertrude thy final name is—this thou art
To me, whate'er to others thou hast been;
I claim thy beauty, and will rule thy heart:
Lo! sweet one, I the imperial whiteness win
Which thou hast kept untainted through long lives,
Stored like deep honey, in tenderest passion-hives.

THE TREASURES OF ALL THY PAST

Bring thou to me the treasures of thy past,
Sweet maiden spotless spirit—bring to me
Savours of blossoms from thy southern sea;
Flower-petals scattered by thy northern blast.
Thy robe of endless life around me cast!
Oh make me one in thy divine abode
With every sweet land where thy foot has glowed;
Count all thy loves up: this love is the last!

I lift not back, when I put down my hand.
Thou art mine own now,—tenderly display
Wreaths woven for thee in a former day
In palaces, perhaps, that over sand
Hot, grassless, limitless, glared from their panes,
Splendid in colour, dyed with Tyrian stains.

A MAIDEN SPIRIT

In spite of all thy lives, maiden thou art
For him who hath the soul to understand.
Ringless thy finger is: unkissed thine hand:
Spotless the untouched beauty of thine heart.
Now we have met, sweet love, we shall not part.
Make me the lord of immemorial land
Wherein thou hast had thy treasures; flowers expand
With thee that shine not now in vale or mart.

They are the blossoms of a former world,
By thy sweet power made manifest to me:
Oh, the great wondrous calm white petals curled
So softly and so smoothly that I see!
Unfold them, lady,—and thyself unfold,
That I may reach thy blossom-heart of gold!

WITH SUMMER

With summer come, sweet spirit of my dream!
Thou art a flower of heaven: now flowers awake,
Be thou on earth a blossom for my sake,
Let blossom-wings of beauty round me gleam.
Oh, through the summer nights when lone hearts ache,
When o'er earth's solitary spirits stream
Legions of devious fancies, do thou take
My heart to heaven on bright love's rainbow-beam.

Be with me through the sacred summer nights,
A marvellous joy, a bounty in the air,
Thyself both giver of supreme delights,
And the supremest, most surpassing fair:
When sinks the dusk o'er mountain, lake, and sea,
Thou white-winged spirit of love, descend on me!

BEAR THOU MY POEMS UPWARD

Bear thou my poems upward: if on earth
Few sympathise, yet fewer understand,
Gift me with laurels from another land,
Crown me with crowns of sweeter nobler worth.
Oh take my labour, Gertrude, in thy hand,
And bear it upward through the silent night
Towards love's own unapproachable clear light:
The utmost heavens part at thy command!

Take thou my singing through the golden gates,
Unclose all barriers, yea unbar the tomb,
Let thy white pinions shine athwart death's gloom.
My spirit pauses not, nor hesitates
At death or sorrow, labour or the fray;
Lift me beyond life's night-time into day.

SHALL NOT THE FUTURE?

Shall not the future listen to this strain
Of thee the spirit-woman, loved by me?
Shall not our music sound beside the sea
Of life, long after we are no more twain,
But one in death's inseparable domain?
Shall not they wonder at thy purity
Of dazzling wings, and neck without a stain?
Shall not thy laughter mix with girlhood's glee?

Oh, let it be so—let the future know
Thy spirit-beauty: let the rose unborn
Copy, Gertrude, thy red lips in the morn,
And let thy flying feet, like flakes of snow,
Descend upon the unquivering grasses fair;
In heaven a white rose, plucked in England, wear.

THOU ART NOT ENGLISH

Thou art not English: I am bringing thee
Towards earth and England, as one brings a bride
From foreign lands, across the breezy sea;—
Nor art thou of our planet: its blue tide
Of ocean, and its plains thou hast descried
For the first time now love has brought thee here,
To sway my spirit, and be to me most dear,
To be my spirit-queen and tender guide.

And dost thou wonder at the English seas,
Sweet, strange, unknowing spirit—I'll give thy hand
To Beatrice, whose cheeks our salt strong breeze
From girlhood unto womanhood hath fanned:
Oh, guard her, Beatrice; and she shall keep
Thy spirit when thou crossest death's dim deep!

WILT THOU NOT BE VISIBLE?

Oh, canst thou not be visible to me
In woman's sweet alluring subtle form?
Come with a sound of pinions, a soft storm
Of plumage, when the moon is on the sea!
Or come at noontide:—or when sleep sets free
The wandering fancy—let me hear thy voice,
And in its sacred melody rejoice;
Wilt thou not grant this, since I yearn for thee?

Oh, let our love know deeper sweeter joy
Than earth in highest moments e'er can show;
Pleasure which fadeth not, which ne'er can cloy;
Summer which changeth not to tears and snow:
Oh, let me pass into thy changeless life,
Sweet spirit-guardian, soul-love, spirit-wife!

WHEN ALL THE WORK IS DONE

When all the work is done, let me look back
On lone heights traversed, moonless oceans ploughed,
Dark forests threaded, where a close-knit shroud
Of frowning foliage sways across the track;
Shores whereupon eternal love I've vowed;
Flowers I have twined in maidens' bright-brown hair;
Ferns I have twisted into locks as fair;
Summers wherein my singing hath been loud.

Let me as in one crowning vision see
The long toil ended, yea the very whole,
The utmost height, the summit, the white goal,
And, crowning every crown, white Gertrude, thee
Waiting to meet me—smiling a reward
In thy dear eyes for strokes of many a sword.