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

For thy sake, sweet, I keep the great clear wave
Silent and moveless,—still, within my heart.
I help thee, love, to play thy daily part
In patience, and through love the world to save.
Our bright star glistens, bright beyond the grave,
And here we have the silver voice of Art
To cheer and gladden; and, to soothe each smart,
Love,—stalwart, pure, indomitable, brave.

I keep the great wave still: although 'tis there
Ready, if even on earth a greater need
Arise,—some wrong e'en Love were weak to bear.
Till then I hold, for so hath Love decreed,
The wave that might devour with fiercest spray,
Still as the blue sea on a summer day.

198

II.
MY SWORD

God says that I may send thee, sweet, my sword.—
Its use is nearly over,—let the hilt
Be held once in thy white hand if thou wilt;—
That touch will be its owner's high reward.
Black-stained it is with blood of foemen spilt,
Dinted and jagged, and snapped anigh the point,
And all the tassel is of rusted gilt;
The scabbard gapes with wear at every joint.

I shall not need it more. The highest gift
That I can give, it is; the tenderest too.
No more in battle shall it glitter swift,
And, after, streak its sheath with crimson dew.
The sword is dead and victor,—as am I:
Take thou the weary steel, and put it by.

199

III.
“I AM TRISTRAM”

I am Tristram watching how the young souls tilt.—
I lean with thee, my dark-haired tourney-bride,
Against this pillar,—press thee to my side,
And sheathe my strong sword bloodied to the hilt.
The stains of blood are dry thereon. Unspilt
Shall be the red flood in this battle-tide:—
No more my plume goes, swaying in its pride,
Athwart the mêlée: hushed my battle-lilt.

Sweet, watch with me the combatants,—nor ask
Thy knightly Tristram to unsheathe his sword.
To unhorse these youths were all too easy task:
Their maidens' kisses are not my reward.
Lo! I am Tristram. Iseult, share with me
The swordless bloodless calm of victory.

200

IV.
BLOSSOMS ABOVE A TOMB

For Beatrice a red rose, and a white
For thee,—and for my wife a violet fair.
Let petals of such flowers caress the air
Above my grave, when summer suns shine bright.—
Red for the day,—the snowy for the night,—
The purple for the eve or early morn:
By tender hands let such three plants be borne
Towards the green hillock where in still delight
The poet sleeps, life's mantle off him torn,
Waiting the resurrection and its might.
—Earth had for him not much besides its scorn:
Love found his soul, then left that soul forlorn:
But death hath rapture! Where in grievous plight
He sowed, behold the interminable corn!

201

V.
ETERNAL MURMURINGS

I hear the murmurs of the eternal sea
That washes round the trembling shores of time;
I mark faint whispers from another clime;
Death's form at seasons overshadows me.
But through it all I part not, sweet, from thee;—
Rather our passion waxes more sublime
As earthly sounds become like some spent rhyme;
Our sacred love-flower blooms eternally.

Oh, if thou diest the first, be ever near
To lead me upward with love's whisper clear,—
To draw me forth with passion's accent fond.
When the last loving kiss on earth is given
Just as I die, be thine the first in heaven:
Before death others kiss; kiss thou beyond!

202

VI.
MY BELOVED

Pain's fiery lesson was to teach us this:
To teach the perfect truth to either soul,—
That now, beside us as the swift months roll,
Nought may disturb, no frailty mar, our bliss.
Beneath the stars again our spirits kiss:
Again the smarting puzzled hearts are whole:
Again with gladdened lips Love's crystal bowl
We touch;—and know how great a thing Love is.

Heart of my heart, soul of my soul indeed,
Wast thou in sorrow, and did I not bleed?
Mind of my mind, were issues vast at stake,
Bewildering thee,—and did not my mind ache?
Spirit that crownest mine beyond all loss,
Out of one tree God hewed for each a cross.

203

VII.
BEHIND

Behind it all—the anger and the flame
That leapt upon thee—there is, couldst thou see,
The loving inner changeless soul of me,
Unshaken,—clear for ever in its aim.
I love thee,—and so I hate eternally
Each smallness foreign to thy nature true:
Just as I welcome every blossom new
Of thought or heart; each growth of being's tree.

Behind it all,—O thou whom I adore
Enough to “crucify”—as thou didst say,—
There is the love that changes never more;
The soul of yearning thou canst never slay:—
Strength that would help thee; prayer that intercedes;
Sweet love that tarries patient: love that bleeds.

204

VIII.
“IT IS NOT ANGER”

It is not anger; couldst thou see it so.—
It is not anger,—but the intense desire
That burns for ever in me like white fire
At last thy soul—a spotless soul—to know.
The inward awful inarticulate glow
Of passion that, in measure, through my lyre
Sounds,—that would lift thee high and ever higher
Towards summits robed in majesty of snow.

This, this it is that sometimes sternly speaks
When thou art weak, and lingerest by the way.
God's mountains are before us, and the spray
Of ocean; tarry not by river-creeks:—
It is not anger, couldst thou this thing prove,—
But burning vast intolerable love.

205

IX.
BENEATH LOFTIER STARS

Yes! now indeed we meet 'neath loftier stars.
The high airs soothe us, and the silence deep
Seems part of that eternal watch we keep:
Now, nought our reunited passion mars.
Like marvellous and fragrant summer sleep
A sense of life steals over us, and brings
New wondrous visions cradled on its wings:
We stand, victorious, on a nobler steep!

Before us spreads the wonderful wide view,
With ocean in the distance, dim and blue,—
And love, with white and soft plumes, everywhere:
We breathe, with ecstasy beyond all speech,
In this diviner mutual height we reach,
The unknown immortal soul-caressing air.

206

X.
SOUL-PAIN

To-day my heart is broken,—and I feel
No rest in love, no recompence in song:
The slow sick weary moments crawl along;
Not one can answer my forlorn appeal.
And thou art far away whose spirit strong
Brings hope and light and comfort:—now these steal
Away from me, a shivering ghostlike throng,
And no sweet God would answer,—did I kneel.

O heart, heart, heart,—that triest to understand,—
Keep thou for ever from the genius-land,
And mingle not with agony like mine!
“A bay-wreathed poet” means a brow that drips
With blood for ever. Kiss not thou my lips,
Lest the eternal poet's-doom be thine.

207

XI.
“I NEED THEE”

Again I say it! Do we need the air,
The wind, the stars, the many-voicéd sea,
And may I not avow my need of thee
Who art to me the chiefest of things fair?—
If some sad brooch is robbed of jewel rare
That shone i' the centre, must it not complain?
Not strive its gleaming emerald to regain?—
When I am robbed, must I that robbery bear?—

O diamond, emerald, star, sea, blossom, sun,
Things sweet and things familiar all in one,
I need thee,—and I choose to say my need,
As to the sea might speak some floating weed:
Or as a wanderer might desire a star,
And sink,—if clouds the vision sweet should mar.

208

XII.
“YET I ENDURE”

Yet independent, fearless, I endure.—
I stand beneath God's night with lonely head
And watch the stars like one already dead,
Or one whom only death's white touch can cure.
My footstep through the dark supremely sure
Sounds. Lo! above the hills my dawn is red,
And soon my fair last love-word will be said,
And no more will soft lips of earth allure.

Because I face the terror of the night
Alone,—and let God's dark sing through my hair
Unflinching, smiling as his arrows smite;
Because in silence sorrow I can bear;
Therefore it is that with divine delight
I kiss thee coming all that woe to share.

209

XIII.
“LET US NEVER COMFORT EACH OTHER INTO SLEEP”

Yet let us comfort. Comfort is a part
Of that strong help which either spirit needs:
It lifts, it soothes, it purifies each heart;
God's touch is gentle, when the pierced soul bleeds.
When anger fails, a softer speech succeeds
Full often; the great victories are won
By patience, and the everlasting deeds
By everlasting tenderness are done,
And out of love the angels' robes are spun,
And sweetest pity in God's loom is woven,
And he is crowned with mercy like a sun:—
By bitter lightning trees in twain are cloven,
But not the human heart: it bends alone
To Love's voice; yieldeth to no other tone.

210

XIV.
THE AWAKING

And if one falls asleep, through labour long,
Why, what shall the divine awaking be?
Surely no angry word; but some soft song
Sung 'neath the casement,—as from summer tree
The nightingales chant, loud and strenuously:
Or as the thrushes, some wild day in spring,
Hurl from dank copse to copse their stormy glee
And make the wet surrounding meadows ring.
If thou dost need awakening, I will bring
My harp, and 'neath thy window sweep the chords,
Or flutter o'er thy brow my vocal wing
And gently lift thy tresses:—let the swords
Of violent speech be snapped; and if I miss
The morn and sleep on,—wake me by a kiss!

211

XV.
“SHALL I KNOW THEE?”

Shall I know thee when thou art changed and glad?
Or wilt thou, if thou diest, wander far
From me thy poet towards some alien star,
That I, in heaven, may even there be sad?—
Will welcoming angels golden gates unbar
And wilt thou traverse dreamlands in the sky?
If that be so, 'tis then that I shall die,
Finding how weak death's other arrows are.

Or wilt thou be so changed that I shall gaze
And know thee not, and seek in vain to mark
Some far-off semblance of earth's tender ways?
'Twill hardly be so, though Fate's paths are dark
But, if I know thee not, say, “Love, rejoice!”
And I shall know the tremble in thy voice.

212

XVI.
MY GIFT

I give thee sorrow, and I give thee pain:
'Tis all the troubled singer has to give!
This, this is all my guerdon while I live,—
And, now and then, the pleasure of a strain.
Not more can I bestow while I remain
On earth an outcast and a wayfarer,
With all the night's harsh dewdrops in my hair;—
This scant reward and piteous thou shalt gain.

But after death there comes my time of pleasure
When I may crown thee in more ample measure,—
Fill up thy coronet with golden bars:—
First friendship through the agony of earth;
Then heaven and close-bound hearts that sing for mirth!
First sorrow; then a crown of many stars!

213

XVII.
“BE GENTLE”

Be gentle with me: for thou knowest not yet
The utter need there is in me of love.
Oh! though the poets' brows, bay-crowned above,
Shine famously,—look close, their eyes are wet.
The sorrow of all the earth God's hand has set
Upon them for a wreath,—and in strange fashion
To understand in soul earth's every passion:
For this it is that earth is in their debt.

What the slow heartless lover cannot feel,
The poet feels for him; and tear-drops steal
Adown his cheeks when others cannot sorrow.
What wonder then if sometimes in his heart
There is a yearning he cannot impart,
And sweet would seem a night without a morrow!

214

XVIII.
A PICTURE

I saw a picture of a soldier low
Upon some grisly battle-field. Tall firs
Above him smote the sky with rigid spurs;
Death reigned: and silent blood was on the snow.
A woman's form stood by him, and she held
A wreath, and loth to give it, loth to go,
She seemed,—and it might be the pure tears welled
From her heart's depths. The picture did not show.

O sweet one, be thou unto me as she!
When I am lying dead upon life's snow,
Black trees above, and spots of blood below,
Come thou with the sweet song-wreath tenderly.
If but thy loving face o'er me be bent
At that still moment,—I shall be content.

215

XIX.
“WHEN YOU THOUGHT I WAS ‘FAR AWAY,’ I WAS DREAMING, ETC.”

But is it any crime to love you so
That I would have you sitting ever near,
Ready to help my patient labour, dear,
And all depression's fiends to overthrow?
Is it a wrong that I would have you here
To aid the lagging moments as they go
And speed the silent hours with glances clear?
Is love condemned, when love doth overflow?

A little distance seems quite “far away,”
Because my heart would have you close indeed.
After clear sunshine e'en the moon looks grey
And wretched,—and so urgent is my need
That, since I cannot cry “For ever stay!”
The smallest absence makes my spirit bleed.

216

XX.
“SOME DAY I WILL TELL YOU”

Yes; tell me all. For every thought of thine
Is unto me a flower I long to hold,
And thy past life is as a cup of gold
Brimming for me with sparkling joyous wine.
Yes; tell me what thy sorrows were of old!
Press deep thy thorn-crown! Make its red points mine!
Wear thou my bays and buds of eglantine;
Rob me, despoil me thou—sweet thief, be bold!

For then it shall be well with us. I wear
This wreath whose lingering blood-drops soil thine hair,
Whose raven-black, unsoiled, I love to see:
Thou takest flowers that thou dost need the more
Because their gracious bloom came not before.
Take thou my roses. Give thy thorns to me.

217

XXI.
ART NEEDS THEE

Art needs thee, gentle lady. Where dost thou
Yet tarry? Art is weeping through the night,
And though above his head the stars are bright
He needs thy hand to wreathe them round his brow.
The sonnets wave white wings and to thee call:
Imagination's hand is on the plough:
Fancies arise like wreaths of mist and fall:
Blossoms of thought before the soft breeze bow.

But where dost thou abide, O soul of Art?
What songs are soothing now thy world-worn heart?
Pale Art is dying, lady, for thy kiss:
Oh, wilt not thou arise and save by this?
Sad Art is perishing for lack of thee;
Oh, heal sad Art,—and doing so, save me!

218

XXII.
THE VEIL OF BLISS

The veil of bliss that each casts over each
Makes each alone, although within a crowd;
Love spreads above us both his golden cloud,
And lo! at once we are out of human reach,
Listening to the eternal spirits' speech,
With God's dear tender eyes above us bowed.
Others we help; yet are we, sweet, allowed
To wander sometimes on a lonely beach.

The veil descends,—and lo! we are alone,
Utterly lonely, utterly at peace.
The sounds of common voices round us cease,
For round us both God's veiling arms are thrown.
Then, when the veil is lifted, we return
To help the sad, and strengthen those that yearn.

219

XXIII.
FINALLY ALONE

Yet must there come a final triumph-time
When all the lower service is achieved;
When all love passes into joy sublime,—
Joy higher than our highest hopes conceived.
Then shall we be alone. The utmost air
Of heaven shall crown us, and our hearts shall sing
With strange joy,—subtle, spirit-thrilling, fair:
Above us both shall brood God's lonely wing.

Then shall I, seeking blossoms, find but thee;
Hear in thy voice the murmur of the sea:
Find all sweet gifts and tender of the air
Within thine heart,—for purest heaven is there:—
And, yearning towards God's summer in deep skies,
Verily find it!—deeper in thine eyes.

220

XXIV.
“THY MANY WEARY YEARS”

Thy many weary years were not too long
As preparation for the coming dower
Of love,—God's own unsearchable white flower
Which now thou hast; thou hast it in this song.
The weary waiting years of tedious wrong
Wrought in thee thine intenser passion-power,
And now I loving sing beside thy bower,—
Myself through equal suffering purged and strong.

And so we meet. Thou art ready now to bear
The burning love-god's passionate embrace:—
Love, long from thee withheld, is doubly fair;
Sweeter is love, and sweeter is thy face
To love for thy lone hill-top's icy air
And all thy patient running of life's race.

221

XXV.
THY LOVE-SERVICE

Thou art like some sweet queen who gives her heart
To zealous Psyche-service for a time,
Till she shall gather wings and growth sublime
And upwards towards the ancestral high heaven start.
Mine endlessly, unceasingly, thou art,
For I have kissed thee in some ancient clime
And circled thee with immemorial rhyme;
In truth our spirits never were apart.

But now to this love-service thou art doomed,
Though mine thou art in the inmost depth of things.
Though round thee endless starless nights have gloomed,
Lo! now at last the morning's golden wings.
Behold, the trembling bud hath grandly bloomed:—
Thou hast served servants. Thou shalt gladden kings!

222

XXVI.
THE PSYCHE-SERVICE

This tender Psyche-service of thee, sweet,
Brings thee the nearer. Whiter is thy heart,
Purer thy being in its every part:
Towards me thou comest now with bird-swift feet.
Thou hast endured the labour and the heat;
Rest now beneath the shadow of my Art!
No longer, rose, thy straggling tendrils dart
On all sides, searching for some soft retreat.

My Art is unto thee thy God-sent bower
And thou within it art the gracious rose,
Its one presiding ever-present flower.
Lo! Art above thee her green mantle throws:
Wait,—tarry patient for one mortal hour;
Then, ever safe within my arms repose.

223

XXVII.
THE WAVE-TOSSED VESSEL

Sweet art thou, lady, rising from the deep
Like Venus,—white star of the open sea,
Heart of the spaces where the blue waves leap
And toss tumultuous heads ecstatically:
Rising as if from some enchanted sleep
Like a pure sudden daybreak, love, on me,
With hair in those sea-breezes floating free
And eyes through which the sea-birds' glances peep.

“Harbour of refuge” am I? O fair ship,
Fair woman-vessel with love-moulded lip,
Lo! through the ocean ploughing thy pure way,
Thy black hair pearly with the reckless spray,
Sweet with the breezes, splendid from the sea,
As to thine harbour hurriest thou to me?

224

XXVIII.
NOW

Because thou hast been “in the open,” now
Shalt thou find all thine “harbour” safe and sweet.
Enter therein, O love, with fearless feet:
Lay up therein thy vessel's foam-swept prow!
Peace and reward the approving gods allow;
Soft shall thy rest be after burning heat
Of summer,—glad the flowers in thy retreat.
See! this fair rose I bind about thy brow.

O lady,—“vessel” of mine now coming “home,”
Bringing me richest treasures from the East,
Thy thin stem cutting the receding foam,—
Love waits, and spreads us a thrice-glorious feast.
Thou art bright with sunsets over loneliest sea,
And with those sighing sunsets crownest me.

225

XXIX.
“I AM NOT WORTHY”

I am not worthy of thy worship, love!—
There are within me hosts of passions yet
Whose angry serried spear-ranks must be met:
Fierce warriors whose keen swords against me move.
Oh, we have talked in many a blossomy grove
Of happiness,—but am I worthy thee?
O love, love, love of mine,—if thou couldst see
My whole grim life, wouldst thou that life approve?

Oh, thou art white, and thou wouldst shrink away!
The whitest thing about me is the red:
Thy wings are golden,—mine are gaunt and grey;
Sins black and endless beat about my head
With flapping plumes and urgent lips that say,
“Dark would thy soul be, had that soul not bled.”

226

XXX.
THE WHOLE

Wouldst thou be with me, if thou knewest the whole?
I cannot tell: my sins are black indeed,—
And yet for every sin I've had to bleed,
Till pale and bloodless is the exhausted soul.
Would still thy woman's pity intercede,
And still thy white hand linger in my own?
Or should I find myself adrift, alone,—
Like one shell in the Atlantic, or one weed?

One thing there is, if sins of mine are large,
Large is the ocean of my suffering too,
And terribly wave-beaten all its marge:
Round youth's proud helm wild darts of anguish flew;
And thou mayest mark besides a broken targe,
Which once a girl's slight arrow struck right through.