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Удивительная книга. Как никогда актуальна сегодня. Язык и стиль автора настолько тонок, лёгок и изыскан, что легко поведёт читателя в мир героев, кото...
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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1
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I read good books. My heart despairs.
In vain I try to dress
My soul in feelings like to theirs—
These men of holiness.
My thoughts, like doves, abroad I fling
Into a country fair:
Wind-baffled, back, with tired wing,
They to my ark repair.
Or comes a sympathetic thrill
With long-departed saint,
A feeble dawn, without my will,
Of feelings old and quaint,
As of a church's holy night,
With low-browed chapels round,
Where common sunshine dares not light
On the too sacred ground,—
One glance at sunny fields of grain,
One shout of child at play—
A merry melody drives amain
The one-toned chant away!
My spirit will not enter here
To haunt the holy gloom;
I gaze into a mirror mere,
A mirror, not a room.
And as a bird against the pane
Will strike, deceived sore,
I think to enter, but remain
Outside the closed door.
Oh, it will call for many a sigh
If it be what it claims—
This book, so unlike earth and sky,
Unlike man's hopes and aims!—
To me a desert parched and bare—
In which a spirit broods
Whose wisdom I would gladly share
At cost of many goods!
* * * * *
III
O hear me, God! O give me joy
Such as thy chosen feel;
Have pity on a wretched boy;
My heart is hard as steel.
I have no care for what is good;
Thyself I do not love;
I relish not this Bible-food;
My heaven is not above.
Thou wilt not hear: I come no more;
Thou heedest not my woe.
With sighs and tears my heart is sore.
Thou comest not: I go.
* * * * *
IV
Once more I kneel. The earth is dark,
And darker yet the air;
If light there be, 'tis but a spark
Amid a world's despair—
One hopeless hope there yet may be
A God somewhere to hear;
The God to whom I bend my knee—
A God with open ear.
I know that men laugh still to scorn
The grief that is my lot;
Such wounds, they say, are hardly borne,
But easily forgot.
What matter that my sorrows rest
On ills which men despise!
More hopeless heaves my aching breast
Than when a prophet sighs.
AEons of griefs have come and gone—
My grief is yet my mark.
The sun sets every night, yet none
Sees therefore in the dark.
There's love enough upon the earth,
And beauty too, they say:
There may be plenty, may be dearth,
I care not any way.
The world hath melted from my sight;
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