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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
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In thee my perfect mind;
In all my joys, my Lord, thou art
The deeper joy behind.
But when fresh light and visions bold
My heart and hope expand,
Up comes the vanity of old
That now I understand:
Away, away from thee I drift,
Forgetting, not forgot;
Till sudden yawns a downward rift—
I start—and see thee not.
Ah, then come sad, unhopeful hours!
All in the dark I stray,
Until my spirit fainting cowers
On the threshold of the day.
Hence not even yet I child-like dare
Nestle unto thy breast,
Though well I know that only there
Lies hid the secret rest.
But now I shrink not from thy will,
Nor, guilty, judge my guilt;
Thy good shall meet and slay my ill—
Do with me as thou wilt.
If I should dream that dream once more,
Me in my dreaming meet;
Embrace me, Master, I implore,
And let me kiss thy feet.
II
I stood before my childhood's home,
Outside its belt of trees;
All round my glances flit and roam
O'er well-known hills and leas;
When sudden rushed across the plain
A host of hurrying waves,
Loosed by some witchery of the brain
From far, dream-hidden caves.
And up the hill they clomb and came,
A wild, fast-flowing sea:
Careless I looked as on a game;
No terror woke in me.
For, just the belting trees within,
I saw my father wait;
And should the waves the summit win,
There was the open gate!
With him beside, all doubt was dumb;
There let the waters foam!
No mightiest flood would dare to come
And drown his holy home!
Two days passed by. With restless toss,
The red flood brake its doors;
Prostrate I lay, and looked across
To the eternal shores.
The world was fair, and hope was high;
My friends had all been true;
Life burned in me, and Death and I
Would have a hard ado.
Sudden came back the dream so good,
My trouble to abate:
At his own door my Father stood—
I just without the gate!
"Thou know'st what is, and what appears,"
I said; "mine eyes to thine
Are windows; thou hear'st with thine ears,
But also hear'st with mine:"
"Thou knowest my weak soul's dismay,
How trembles my life's node;
Thou art the potter, I am the clay—
'Tis thine to bear the load."
III
A piece of gold had left my purse,
Which I had guarded ill;
I feared a lack, but feared yet worse
Regret returning still.
I lifted up my feeble prayer
To him who maketh strong,
That thence no haunting thoughts of care
Might do my spirit wrong.
And even before my body slept,
Such visions fair I had,
In all my joys, my Lord, thou art
The deeper joy behind.
But when fresh light and visions bold
My heart and hope expand,
Up comes the vanity of old
That now I understand:
Away, away from thee I drift,
Forgetting, not forgot;
Till sudden yawns a downward rift—
I start—and see thee not.
Ah, then come sad, unhopeful hours!
All in the dark I stray,
Until my spirit fainting cowers
On the threshold of the day.
Hence not even yet I child-like dare
Nestle unto thy breast,
Though well I know that only there
Lies hid the secret rest.
But now I shrink not from thy will,
Nor, guilty, judge my guilt;
Thy good shall meet and slay my ill—
Do with me as thou wilt.
If I should dream that dream once more,
Me in my dreaming meet;
Embrace me, Master, I implore,
And let me kiss thy feet.
II
I stood before my childhood's home,
Outside its belt of trees;
All round my glances flit and roam
O'er well-known hills and leas;
When sudden rushed across the plain
A host of hurrying waves,
Loosed by some witchery of the brain
From far, dream-hidden caves.
And up the hill they clomb and came,
A wild, fast-flowing sea:
Careless I looked as on a game;
No terror woke in me.
For, just the belting trees within,
I saw my father wait;
And should the waves the summit win,
There was the open gate!
With him beside, all doubt was dumb;
There let the waters foam!
No mightiest flood would dare to come
And drown his holy home!
Two days passed by. With restless toss,
The red flood brake its doors;
Prostrate I lay, and looked across
To the eternal shores.
The world was fair, and hope was high;
My friends had all been true;
Life burned in me, and Death and I
Would have a hard ado.
Sudden came back the dream so good,
My trouble to abate:
At his own door my Father stood—
I just without the gate!
"Thou know'st what is, and what appears,"
I said; "mine eyes to thine
Are windows; thou hear'st with thine ears,
But also hear'st with mine:"
"Thou knowest my weak soul's dismay,
How trembles my life's node;
Thou art the potter, I am the clay—
'Tis thine to bear the load."
III
A piece of gold had left my purse,
Which I had guarded ill;
I feared a lack, but feared yet worse
Regret returning still.
I lifted up my feeble prayer
To him who maketh strong,
That thence no haunting thoughts of care
Might do my spirit wrong.
And even before my body slept,
Such visions fair I had,
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
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Очень интересная!