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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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Pray! At the word a cloudy grief
Around me folds its pall:
Nothing I have to call belief!
How can I pray at all?
I know not if a God be there
To heed my crying sore;
If in the great world anywhere
An ear keeps open door!
An unborn faith I will not nurse,
Pursue an endless task;
Loud out into its universe
My soul shall call and ask!
Is there no God—earth, sky, and sea
Are but a chaos wild!
Is there a God—I know that he
Must hear his calling child!
XIV
I kneel. But all my soul is dumb
With hopeless misery:
Is he a friend who will not come,
Whose face I must not see?
I do not think of broken laws,
Of judge's damning word;
My heart is all one ache, because
I call and am not heard.
A cry where there is none to hear,
Doubles the lonely pain;
Returns in silence on the ear,
In torture on the brain.
No look of love a smile can bring,
No kiss wile back the breath
To cold lips: I no answer wring
From this great face of death.
XV
Yet sometimes when the agony
Dies of its own excess,
A dew-like calm descends on me,
A shadow of tenderness;
A sense of bounty and of grace,
A cool air in my breast,
As if my soul were yet a place
Where peace might one day rest.
God! God! I say, and cry no more,
But rise, and think to stand
Unwearied at the closed door
Till comes the opening hand.
XVI
But is it God?—Once more the fear
Of No God loads my breath:
Amid a sunless atmosphere
I fight again with death.
Such rest may be like that which lulls
The man who fainting lies:
His bloodless brain his spirit dulls,
Draws darkness o'er his eyes.
But even such sleep, my heart responds,
May be the ancient rest
Rising released from bodily bonds,
And flowing unreprest.
The o'ertasked will falls down aghast
In individual death;
God puts aside the severed past,
Breathes-in a primal breath.
For how should torture breed a calm?
Can death to life give birth?
No labour can create the balm
That soothes the sleeping earth!
I yet will hope the very One
Whose love is life in me,
Did, when my strength was overdone,
Inspire serenity.
XVII
When the hot sun's too urgent might
Hath shrunk the tender leaf,
Water comes sliding down the night,
And makes its sorrow brief.
When poet's heart is in eclipse,
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
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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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