Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SONGS OF NIGHT TO MORNING: 2. AND YET, by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SONGS OF NIGHT TO MORNING: 2. AND YET, by                    
First Line: And yet it seems to me that something of paternal
Last Line: If I could save thee just one shadow of hell.
Subject(s): Love


And yet it seems to me that something of paternal
Desire within my soul is guardian to thy vernal
Sweet soft days full of leaf:—
And that, if thou didst pass beyond my sight, and, sinning,
Didst mar the fairy life that thou art now beginning,
A sword would pierce me of eternal grief.

There is a love that hath within it nought but passion.
But there are souls who love in nobler sunnier fashion,
With far more starlike will.
There is a love that bends, with something of a mother
Within its yearning deep, and somewhat of a brother,
Above the heart wild love might wound or kill.

Oh, if my doom is this,—that I must see thee turning
From the true road, and know that even God's own yearning
Could hardly stay thy feet;—
If I am doomed to watch the girlish soft eyes harden,
Just as a man who sees a rosebud in his garden
Rusted and withered by the wind and sleet;—

If I am doomed to watch the fairy brown bright glances
That I have loved, God knows!—fling conscious cunning lances
Against the shields of men;—
If as thou growest in years thou hast to lose that tender
And nameless charm that now with more than mortal splendour
Doth clothe thy spirit often and again;—

If I must see all this and feel the cold sword sinking
Within my heart, yet bear in silence, without shrinking,
The utmost keen deep pang;
Yet may I know that I, according to my measure,
Lifted and never sank thy white soul's priceless treasure,
And loved thee purely, as I purely sang.

May never a bud of thine through me be wind-tossed roughly!
Thou art not made of harsh coarse clay, nor fashioned toughly
As some thy sisters are:
Thou wast not made to hear rude merriment and laughter;
Surely thou hast before thee some divine hereafter;
Grow starlike, having soft eyes like a star.

No man can grow a woman as he groweth roses.
Nay, God himself at times from the long task reposes,
And weary he turns, and sighs.
Thine own path thou must take.—And I thy swift-winged swallow
May be forbidden for years thy summer laugh to follow
And the dear summer sunshine in thine eyes.

God's hand is over both.—Because I love thee dearly
A pitiless sword may pierce my soul,—I see it clearly,—
I know my risk full well.
Yet were there a thousand swords in front, or blazing trenches,
Mine would not be the eye or hand or heart that blenches,—
If I could save thee just one shadow of hell.





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