The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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ABBEY WOOD
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| I. |
| II. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
87
ABBEY WOOD
I.
Bright hill-sides, covered thick with yellow heads
Of daffodils—a primrose here and there;
The subtle smell of spring-time in the air;
A brimstone-plumaged butterfly who speeds
On wings ecstatic through the shining meads,
As if a flying daffodil it were;
A distant prospect sweet beyond compare,
Showing the silver Thames amid its reeds:
Of daffodils—a primrose here and there;
The subtle smell of spring-time in the air;
A brimstone-plumaged butterfly who speeds
On wings ecstatic through the shining meads,
As if a flying daffodil it were;
A distant prospect sweet beyond compare,
Showing the silver Thames amid its reeds:
Such was the scene that met our earnest gaze,
O Violet, when we rested on the hill,
Marking the slow departure of the haze
From valley, upland, and meandering rill,
A prospect whose pure soothing presence stays
Within me as a sunny comfort still.
O Violet, when we rested on the hill,
Marking the slow departure of the haze
From valley, upland, and meandering rill,
A prospect whose pure soothing presence stays
Within me as a sunny comfort still.
88
II.
I felt the sweet sense of the spring-time steal
Throughout me, renovating every nerve;
I marked the distant river's every curve
And the far echo of a church-bell's peal,
As we were making our sequestered meal,
With appetites the forest airs did serve:
Upon a neighbouring bark with cunning swerve
A creeper climbed and twisted, wheel on wheel.
Throughout me, renovating every nerve;
I marked the distant river's every curve
And the far echo of a church-bell's peal,
As we were making our sequestered meal,
With appetites the forest airs did serve:
Upon a neighbouring bark with cunning swerve
A creeper climbed and twisted, wheel on wheel.
The silence and the pleasure of the place
Pervaded us—we could not but be sure
That here was manifest the perfect grace
Of Beauty, and her bosom soft and pure,
And the exceeding grandeur of her face:
The eyeless smoke-fed city ceased to allure.
Pervaded us—we could not but be sure
That here was manifest the perfect grace
Of Beauty, and her bosom soft and pure,
And the exceeding grandeur of her face:
The eyeless smoke-fed city ceased to allure.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |