The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Quiet I lay at last, and knew no more

        Whether I breathed or not, so worn I lay

        With the death-struggle. What was yet before

      Neither I met, nor turned from it away;

        My only conscious being was the rest

        Of pain gone dead—dead with the bygone day,

      And long I could have lingered all but blest

        In that half-slumber. But there came a sound

        As of a door that opened—in the west

      Somewhere I thought it. As the hare the hound,

        The noise did start my eyelids and they rose.

        I turned my eyes and looked. Then straight I found

      It was my chamber-door that did unclose,

        For a tall form up to my bedside drew.

        Grand was it, silent, its very walk repose;

      And when I saw the countenance, I knew

        That I was lying in my chamber dead;

        For this my brother—brothers such are few—

      That now to greet me bowed his kingly head,

        Had, many years agone, like holy dove

        Returning, from his friends and kindred sped,

      And, leaving memories of mournful love,

        Passed vanishing behind the unseen veil;

        And though I loved him, all high words above.

      Not for his loss then did I weep or wail,

        Knowing that here we live but in a tent,

        And, seeking home, shall find it without fail.

      Feeble but eager, toward him my hands went—

        I too was dead, so might the dead embrace!

        Taking me by the shoulders down he bent,

      And lifted me. I was in sickly case,

        But, growing stronger, stood up on the floor,

        There turned, and once regarded my dead face

      With curious eyes: its brow contentment wore,

        But I had done with it, and turned away.

        I saw my brother by the open door,

      And followed him out into the night blue-gray.

        The houses stood up hard in limpid air,

        The moon hung in the heavens in half decay,

      And all the world to my bare feet lay bare.

      Now I had suffered in my life, as they

        Must suffer, and by slow years younger grow,

        From whom the false fool-self must drop away,

      Compact of greed and fear, which, gathered slow,

        Darkens the angel-self that, evermore,

        Where no vain phantom in or out shall go,

      Moveless beholds the Father—stands before

        The throne of revelation, waiting there,

        With wings low-drooping on the sapphire-floor,

      Until it find the Father's ideal fair,

        And be itself at last: not one small thorn

        Shall needless any pilgrim's garments tear;

      And but to say I had suffered I would scorn

        Save for the marvellous thing that next befell:

        Sudden I grew aware I was new-born;

      All pain had vanished in the absorbent swell

        Of some exalting peace that was my own;

        As the moon dwelt in heaven did calmness dwell

      At home in me, essential. The earth's moan

        Lay all behind. Had I then lost my part

        In human griefs, dear part with them that groan?

      "'Tis weariness!" I said; but with a start

        That set it trembling and yet brake it not,

        I found the peace was love. Oh, my rich heart!

      For, every time I spied a glimmering spot

        Of window pane, "There, in that silent room,"

        Thought I, "mayhap sleeps human heart whose lot

      Is therefore dear to mine!" I cared for whom

        I saw