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

A sweetness not of flowers or suns or seas
Broods o'er thee. Thou art mingled with the air
Of summer: yet than summer sky more fair
Thou art, and tenderer than June-soft breeze.
Thy sweetness, love, is in the almond-trees
And in the lilacs,—and the breath of spring
Doth round about thee like a garment cling;
Yet art thou sweeter, sweetest soul, than these.

Thy sweetness meets me in the morning-tide,
And as the breath of flowers it fills the noon
And all the forest vistas far and wide
And trackless spaces haunted of the moon.
By day thou art my joy, and, when the night
Folds wings around us, mine untold delight.

244

II.
“BECAUSE THOU HAST NOT FEARED”

Because thou hast not feared the darts of men
Flung forth against me in their feeble hate,
But hast believed in me in spite of fate,—
Yea, in thine heart, sweet, often and again
Hast borne their poison-pointed arrows when
Their anger-maddened ranks around the gate
Of song surged foaming, fierce-tongued and elate,—
Beholding in me love beyond their ken:—
Because thou hast not shivered when the seas
Brake hard against me, and the pettish spray
Of hostile words leaped round from day to day,
And evil arrows quivered in the breeze,—
Therefore shalt thou for ever with me stand
When love, not hate, crowns me in mine own land.

245

III.
THE VALLEY ROSES

And have we left the roses far behind?
Are never any flowers and soft green leaves
Waiting to gladden us,—no golden sheaves
Bright underneath the sun-warmed August wind?
What shall we in the fierce strange journey find
Of rapture, as our struggling step achieves
Height after height, while every height deceives,
Each seeming that dim mount for which we pined?

Oh, far and fair the deep green valleys glow!
The valleys that we left so long ago,
Climbing we knew not whither with joined hands.
But one white flower I carry with me thence,—
Thine heart: more sweet than rosebud, more intense
Than all the wild scents of the hot low lands.

246

IV.
LONELY SEASONS

But there are lonely times when all the seas
Seem stricken into mournful dreary grey,
And no sunlight streams o'er the darkened day,
And not one sign of music charms the breeze
Or breaks the silence of the leaden trees,
Nor are the clouds made glad by one moonray:
We are not yet completely one; delay
Wearies,—and lonely long weeks blight and freeze.

Then life seems purposeless. My lyre rings hollow:
I cease to track the footprints of Apollo,
And every sunset's wings, once draped in gold,
Hang damp and heavy o'er the lifeless woods,
And windless are the waste drear solitudes
Wherethrough once Love's embroidered sandal strolled.

247

V.
GLAD SEASONS

But lo! thou comest like the sweet moonlight
That turns the flashing waters into gold:
Thou comest,—and the world is no more old,
But young and glad, and robed in wedding white.
The swift waves laugh with ever tuneful might;
Amid the trees the enamoured breeze is bold;
And all this just because thine hand I hold
And watch with quiet eyes thine eyes most bright.

The whole world changes, love, when thou art here!
The thunderous dark oppressive huge clouds break:
Fallen are the broken wings of vanquished fear:
Blue now for grey ripples the sun-kissed lake:
Deep shines the sky unflecked with mist and clear:
The very birds sing louder for thy sake.

248

VI.
“NOT IN THESE SONGS OF THEE”

Not in these songs of thee do I caress
My lyre, and utter amorous melodies,—
Singing love-songs beneath blue facile skies
Unstricken of storm, unversed in passion's stress.
Nay, rather would I thunder through my lyre
And mix my song with the tumultuous storm,
If so I might the sons of men inspire
And with my soul their listening souls inform!

For thou art great: no queen of amorous ditty,
But sweet, divine, a woman full of pity
That crowneth woman, and of woman's might:—
Queen of the proud untouched impassioned soul:
Therefore for thee shall songs in thunders roll
And peals reverberant the far ether smite.

249

VII.
PERFECT UNION

For nothing can true lovers' souls divide:
Not distance, pain, nor solitude, nor strife,
Nor all the fretting cares of daily life,
Nor thundering seas, nor sunstruck deserts wide.
Breathe but a wish for me: I'm at thy side!
If I desire thee, lo! thou art “quite close”
In spirit, shielding me from myriad foes;
My guardian, and mine holy spirit-bride.

So is it ever. We are never far
One from the other: never say “Good-bye.”
One blue arch reaches us of kindred sky;
We both behold at night the self-same star;—
Both struggle upward bravely towards the high
Clear sphere where the eternal spirits are.

250

VIII.
WEARINESS

Through seas of pain and surging storms of grief,
O sweetheart, we pursue our weary way,
Waiting till on life's hill-tops the new day
Shines, gilding every blossom, every leaf.
O comforter of mine, of helpers chief,
More patient at love's mournful long delay
Than I,—less angered at the cloud-wreaths grey,—
Speak words of hope: the sails of dawn unreef!

Lo! I am weary; weary unto death.
Long is the struggle, and the night is long:
Not yet upon the hills the morning's song
Broods, nor the sweetness of the morning's breath.
Still am I battling 'mid the tides of night:
O sweet star-lady, grant me thy starlight!

251

IX.
FIRST, BATTLE; THEN, WOMAN

And yet chief strength gives chiefest tenderness.—
After the battle comes the calm of sleep
Upon a woman's breast, and eyes that weep,
And the superb and sorrowless caress.
Oh, did not Christ, after the bitter stress
Of unknown agony in the garden deep,
Fruits of unknown, unearthly triumph reap,—
When, death being over, love leant down to bless?

First, battle; after, woman. First the swords
That mingle in the sweltering close mêlée,
And then the embrace yet closer that rewards
Of one who watched from far the fierce fast fray.
First, pitiless strife. Then woman who accords
Gifts that blot out the blood-freaked dust-streaked day.

252

X.
AFTER BATTLE

And, after battle, tenderer is the breeze,
More bountiful the beauty of the night,—
New stars within the abysmal blue shine bright,
And balmier odours fill the forest-trees,
And yet more silvery moonlight floods the seas,
And woman's breast is more exceeding white:
More heavenly is the touch of finger light,
And more divine the most strange sense of ease.

Oh, wind the wreath of battle round thy brow,
Thou lover-warrior! Then shalt thou learn how
The kiss of woman may be God's own calm
Descending with a softness past all speech
Thy blood-stained hopeless lifeless lips to reach;
Sweeter than crown of gold, or wand of palm.