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

All over London now as weary and sad I wander
Thy face and eyes I meet.
Here wast thou; here and here; and there; and here; and yonder;—
Thou hast not left one uninvaded street!

Here did I meet thee once! Here marvellous words were spoken
That thrilled my very heart.—
Time paused and watched us, envious. Yet Time gave no token
How soon and for how long we were to part!

The new spring soon will come with crocus and with swallow
And green woods full of song:
And then the flowers of May will wake,—the rose will follow,
And in the rose's train the blossom-throng!

Thou wilt not come with these? Thou wilt not come for calling
Though sweet the love-strain be?
Thou wilt not come in summer,—or when the leaves are falling
And the wild winds and singers seek the sea?

Thou wilt not come again,—for ever and for ever?
Nor make one London street
New and divine as if man's steps had trodden it never
But only, just that once, thy maiden feet?

Thou wilt not come again,—to make my heart a giant
Leaping along life's way?
To make it new and young and pure and tender and pliant
As if thy touch created love that day?

As if when I saw thee that moment dawned the morning
O'er primal sea and land.
As if the world's white roses waited for the warning
Soft glad first touch of thy creative hand!

As if my heart was void till thy pure spirit did enter
And built its palace there
And sat enthroned a queen within its very centre
And gave my heart the power new fruit to bear!

Yet thou hast come, and herein lies love's chiefest wonder,—
That Time has nought to say
To Love: that years and years can never sunder
From the safe heart the memory of one day.

I never see the streets wherethrough we walked together
Without a deep soul-sigh.
Never,—in autumn days or gorgeous blue June-weather;
And so it will be with me till I die.

And yet we met some six or seven or eight times merely:—
But all the stars are thine,
And when the moon shines out above the roof-tops clearly
I see thee,—and thine eyes again meet mine.

Time is not aught. The world since Jesus' resurrection
Has owned him as its Lord:
The centuries have bent with giant genuflexion
And kings of the earth have yielded crown and sword:

And yet his voice was heard some seven or eight times merely
After the pale death-pang.
Yet through all time it rings of every voice most clearly:—
Dead is no singer, if but once he sang.

And so the two strange nights when all the stars were lightened
Of agelong hunger and grief,
And when my soul grew young once more, and cloud-wreaths brightened,
And love's heart fluttered like a wind-kissed leaf:

The two strange nights when heaven seemed full of hope and bluer
And every star more near
And every breath of air more sweet,—all poems truer,—
And all the soul of womanhood more dear:

These are mine own for ever.—Nought can change or take them
Till life itself is spent.
Can storm-winds move the stars? Can the black tempests shake them?
Do they not laugh when the frail heaven is rent?

Does God own any change though all the centuries dwindle
And shrink before his gaze?
Do God's eyes tremble when the eternal firebolts kindle
Or when the storm-lashed brown foam piles the bays?

No?—So it is with love,—and those two nights of wonder.
They sink into the past.
Yet when along the sea-line rolls the flagging thunder
And all things end, the glory of these shall last.