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A Hidden Life and Other Poems
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I sat and gazed southwards. A dry flow
Of withering wind blew on my drooping strength
From o'er the awful desert's burning length.
Behind me piled, away and upward go
Great sweeps of savage mountains—up, away,
Where panthers roam, and snow gleams all the day.
II
Ah, God! the world needs many hours to make;
Nor hast thou ceased the making of it yet,
But wilt be working on when Death hath set
A new mound in some churchyard for my sake.
On flow the centuries without a break.
Uprise the mountains, ages without let.
The mosses suck the rock's breast, rarely wet.
Years more than past, the young earth yet will take.
But in the dumbness of the rolling time,
No veil of silence will encompass me—
Thou wilt not once forget, and let me be:
I easier think that thou, as I my rhyme,
Wouldst rise, and with a tenderness sublime
Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see.
A GIFT
My gift would find thee fast asleep,
And arise a dream in thee;
A violet sky o'er the roll and sweep
Of a purple and pallid sea;
And a crescent moon from my sky should creep
In the golden dream to thee.
Thou shouldst lay thee down, and sadly list
To the wail of our cold birth-time;
And build thee a temple, glory-kissed,
In the heart of the sunny clime;
Its columns should rise in a music-mist,
And its roofs in a spirit-rhyme.
Its pillars the solemn hills should bind
'Neath arches of starry deeps;
Its floor the earth all veined and lined;
Its organ the ocean-sweeps;
And, swung in the hands of the grey-robed wind,
Its censers the blossom-heaps.
And 'tis almost done; for in this my rhyme,
Thanks to thy mirror-soul,
Thou wilt see the mountains, and hear the chime
Of the waters after the roll;
And the stars of my sky thy sky will climb,
And with heaven roof in the whole.
THE MAN OF SONGS
"Thou wanderest in the land of dreams,
O man of many songs;
To thee the actual only seems—
No realm to thee belongs."
"Seest thou those mountains in the east,
O man of ready aim?"
"'T is only vapours that thou seest,
In mountain form and name."
"Nay, nay, I know them all too well,
Each ridge, and peak, and dome;
In that cloud-land, in one high dell,
Nesteth my little home."
BETTER THINGS
Better to smell a violet,
Than sip the careless wine;
Better to list one music tone,
Than watch the jewels' shine.
Better to have the love of one,
Than smiles like morning dew;
Better to have a living seed
Than flowers of every hue.
Better to feel a love within,
Than be lovely to the sight;
Better a homely tenderness
Than beauty's wild delight.
Better to love than be beloved.
Though lonely all the day;
Better the fountain in the heart,
Than the fountain by the way.
Better a feeble love to God,
Than for woman's love to pine;
Better to have the making God
Than the woman made divine.
Better be fed by mother's hand,
Than eat alone at will;
Of withering wind blew on my drooping strength
From o'er the awful desert's burning length.
Behind me piled, away and upward go
Great sweeps of savage mountains—up, away,
Where panthers roam, and snow gleams all the day.
II
Ah, God! the world needs many hours to make;
Nor hast thou ceased the making of it yet,
But wilt be working on when Death hath set
A new mound in some churchyard for my sake.
On flow the centuries without a break.
Uprise the mountains, ages without let.
The mosses suck the rock's breast, rarely wet.
Years more than past, the young earth yet will take.
But in the dumbness of the rolling time,
No veil of silence will encompass me—
Thou wilt not once forget, and let me be:
I easier think that thou, as I my rhyme,
Wouldst rise, and with a tenderness sublime
Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see.
A GIFT
My gift would find thee fast asleep,
And arise a dream in thee;
A violet sky o'er the roll and sweep
Of a purple and pallid sea;
And a crescent moon from my sky should creep
In the golden dream to thee.
Thou shouldst lay thee down, and sadly list
To the wail of our cold birth-time;
And build thee a temple, glory-kissed,
In the heart of the sunny clime;
Its columns should rise in a music-mist,
And its roofs in a spirit-rhyme.
Its pillars the solemn hills should bind
'Neath arches of starry deeps;
Its floor the earth all veined and lined;
Its organ the ocean-sweeps;
And, swung in the hands of the grey-robed wind,
Its censers the blossom-heaps.
And 'tis almost done; for in this my rhyme,
Thanks to thy mirror-soul,
Thou wilt see the mountains, and hear the chime
Of the waters after the roll;
And the stars of my sky thy sky will climb,
And with heaven roof in the whole.
THE MAN OF SONGS
"Thou wanderest in the land of dreams,
O man of many songs;
To thee the actual only seems—
No realm to thee belongs."
"Seest thou those mountains in the east,
O man of ready aim?"
"'T is only vapours that thou seest,
In mountain form and name."
"Nay, nay, I know them all too well,
Each ridge, and peak, and dome;
In that cloud-land, in one high dell,
Nesteth my little home."
BETTER THINGS
Better to smell a violet,
Than sip the careless wine;
Better to list one music tone,
Than watch the jewels' shine.
Better to have the love of one,
Than smiles like morning dew;
Better to have a living seed
Than flowers of every hue.
Better to feel a love within,
Than be lovely to the sight;
Better a homely tenderness
Than beauty's wild delight.
Better to love than be beloved.
Though lonely all the day;
Better the fountain in the heart,
Than the fountain by the way.
Better a feeble love to God,
Than for woman's love to pine;
Better to have the making God
Than the woman made divine.
Better be fed by mother's hand,
Than eat alone at will;
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
Последний отзыв
Книга дельная. Без воды, приводятся реальные кейсы и способы их разрешения. Много практичных полезных советов и методик. Кое-что уже испробовала в дел...
Далее