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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
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And makes me live in him; by whose one thought,
Alone, unreachable, the making thought,
Infinite and self-bounded, I am here,
A living, thinking will, that cannot know
The power whereby I am—so blest the more
In being thus in thee—Father, thy child.
I cannot, cannot speak the thoughts in me.
My being shares thy glory: lay on me
What thou wouldst have me bear. Do thou with me
Whate'er thou wilt. Tell me thy will, that I
May do it as my best, my highest joy;
For thou dost work in me, I dwell in thee.
Wilt thou not save my wife? I cannot know
The power in thee to purify from sin.
But Life can cleanse the life it lived alive.
Thou knowest all that lesseneth her fault.
She loves me not, I know—ah, my sick heart!—
I will love her the more, to fill the cup;
One bond is snapped, the other shall be doubled;
For if I love her not, how desolate
The poor child will be left! he loves her not.
I have but one prayer more to pray to thee:—
Give me my wife again, that I may watch
And weep with her, and pray with her, and tell
What loving-kindness I have found in thee;
And she will come to thee to make her clean.
Her soul must wake as from a dream of bliss,
To know a dead one lieth in the house:
Let me be near her in that agony,
To tend her in the fever of the soul,
Bring her cool waters from the wells of hope,
Look forth and tell her that the morn is nigh;
And when I cannot comfort, help her weep.
God, I would give her love like thine to me,
Because I love her, and her need is great.
Lord, I need her far more than thou need'st me,
And thou art Love down to the deeps of hell:
Help me to love her with a love like thine.
How shall I find her? It were horrible
If the dread hour should come, and I not near.
Yet pray I not she should be spared one pang,
One writhing of self-loathing and remorse,
For she must hate the evil she has done;
Only take not away hope utterly.
Lily (in her sleep).
Lily means me—don't throw it over the wall.
Julian (going to her).
She is so flushed! I fear the child is ill.
I have fatigued her too much, wandering restless.
To-morrow I will take her to the sea.
[Returning.]
If I knew where, I would write to her, and write
So tenderly, she could not choose but come.
I will write now; I'll tell her that strange dream
I dreamed last night: 'twill comfort her as well.
[He sits down and writes.]
My heart was crushed that I could hardly breathe.
I was alone upon a desolate moor;
And the wind blew by fits and died away—
I know not if it was the wind or me.
How long I wandered there, I cannot tell;
But some one came and took me by the hand.
I gazed, but could not see the form that led me,
And went unquestioning, I cared not whither.
We came into a street I seemed to know,
Came to a house that I had seen before.
The shutters were all closed; the house was dead.
The door went open soundless. We went in,
And entered yet again an inner room.
The darkness was so dense, I shrank as if
From striking on it. The door closed behind.
And then I saw that there was something black,
Dark in the blackness of the night, heaved up
In the middle of the room. And then I saw
That there were shapes of woe all round the room,
Like women in long mantles, bent in grief,
With long veils hanging low down from their heads,
All blacker in the darkness. Not a sound
Broke the death-stillness. Then the shapeless thing
Began to move. Four horrid muffled figures
Had lifted, bore it from the room. We followed,
The bending woman-shapes, and I. We left
The house in long procession. I was walking
Alone beside the coffin—such it was—
Now in the glimmering light I saw the thing.
And now I saw and knew the woman-shapes:
Undine clothed in spray, and heaving up
White arms of lamentation; Desdemona
In her night-robe, crimson on the left side;
Thekla in black, with resolute white face;
And Margaret in fetters, gliding slow—
Alone, unreachable, the making thought,
Infinite and self-bounded, I am here,
A living, thinking will, that cannot know
The power whereby I am—so blest the more
In being thus in thee—Father, thy child.
I cannot, cannot speak the thoughts in me.
My being shares thy glory: lay on me
What thou wouldst have me bear. Do thou with me
Whate'er thou wilt. Tell me thy will, that I
May do it as my best, my highest joy;
For thou dost work in me, I dwell in thee.
Wilt thou not save my wife? I cannot know
The power in thee to purify from sin.
But Life can cleanse the life it lived alive.
Thou knowest all that lesseneth her fault.
She loves me not, I know—ah, my sick heart!—
I will love her the more, to fill the cup;
One bond is snapped, the other shall be doubled;
For if I love her not, how desolate
The poor child will be left! he loves her not.
I have but one prayer more to pray to thee:—
Give me my wife again, that I may watch
And weep with her, and pray with her, and tell
What loving-kindness I have found in thee;
And she will come to thee to make her clean.
Her soul must wake as from a dream of bliss,
To know a dead one lieth in the house:
Let me be near her in that agony,
To tend her in the fever of the soul,
Bring her cool waters from the wells of hope,
Look forth and tell her that the morn is nigh;
And when I cannot comfort, help her weep.
God, I would give her love like thine to me,
Because I love her, and her need is great.
Lord, I need her far more than thou need'st me,
And thou art Love down to the deeps of hell:
Help me to love her with a love like thine.
How shall I find her? It were horrible
If the dread hour should come, and I not near.
Yet pray I not she should be spared one pang,
One writhing of self-loathing and remorse,
For she must hate the evil she has done;
Only take not away hope utterly.
Lily (in her sleep).
Lily means me—don't throw it over the wall.
Julian (going to her).
She is so flushed! I fear the child is ill.
I have fatigued her too much, wandering restless.
To-morrow I will take her to the sea.
[Returning.]
If I knew where, I would write to her, and write
So tenderly, she could not choose but come.
I will write now; I'll tell her that strange dream
I dreamed last night: 'twill comfort her as well.
[He sits down and writes.]
My heart was crushed that I could hardly breathe.
I was alone upon a desolate moor;
And the wind blew by fits and died away—
I know not if it was the wind or me.
How long I wandered there, I cannot tell;
But some one came and took me by the hand.
I gazed, but could not see the form that led me,
And went unquestioning, I cared not whither.
We came into a street I seemed to know,
Came to a house that I had seen before.
The shutters were all closed; the house was dead.
The door went open soundless. We went in,
And entered yet again an inner room.
The darkness was so dense, I shrank as if
From striking on it. The door closed behind.
And then I saw that there was something black,
Dark in the blackness of the night, heaved up
In the middle of the room. And then I saw
That there were shapes of woe all round the room,
Like women in long mantles, bent in grief,
With long veils hanging low down from their heads,
All blacker in the darkness. Not a sound
Broke the death-stillness. Then the shapeless thing
Began to move. Four horrid muffled figures
Had lifted, bore it from the room. We followed,
The bending woman-shapes, and I. We left
The house in long procession. I was walking
Alone beside the coffin—such it was—
Now in the glimmering light I saw the thing.
And now I saw and knew the woman-shapes:
Undine clothed in spray, and heaving up
White arms of lamentation; Desdemona
In her night-robe, crimson on the left side;
Thekla in black, with resolute white face;
And Margaret in fetters, gliding slow—
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
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