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

      I was a child once more, nor pondered life,

        Thought not of what or how much. All my soul

        With sudden births of lovely things grew rife.

      In peeps a daisy: on the instant roll

        Rich lawny fields, with red tips crowding the green,

        Across the hollows, over ridge and knoll,

      To where the rosy sun goes down serene.

        From out of heaven in looks a pimpernel:

        I walk in morning scents of thyme and bean;

      Dewdrops on every stalk and bud and bell

        Flash, like a jewel-orchard, many roods;

        Glow ruby suns, which emerald suns would quell;

      Topaz saint-glories, sapphire beatitudes

        Blaze in the slanting sunshine all around;

        Above, the high-priest-lark, o'er fields and woods—

      Rich-hearted with his five eggs on the ground—

        The sacrifice bore through the veil of light,

        Odour and colour offering up in sound.—

      Filled heart-full thus with forms of lowly might

        And shapeful silences of lovely lore,

        I sat a child, happy with only sight,

      And for a time I needed nothing more.

      Supine to the revelation I did lie,

        Passive as prophet to his dreaming deep,

        Or harp Aeolian to the breathing sky,

      And blest as any child whom twilight sleep

        Holds half, and half lets go. But the new day

        Of higher need up-dawned with sudden leap:

      "Ah, flowers," I said, "ye are divinely gay,

        But your fair music is too far and fine!

        Ye are full cups, yet reach not to allay

      The drought of those for human love who pine

        As the hart for water-brooks!" At once a face

        Was looking in my face; its eyes through mine

      Were feeding me with tenderness and grace,

        And by their love I knew my mother's eyes.

        Gazing in them, there grew in me apace

      A longing grief, and love did swell and rise

        Till weeping I brake out and did bemoan

        My blameful share in bygone tears and cries:

      "O mother, wilt thou plead for me?" I groan;

        "I say not, plead with Christ, but plead with those

        Who, gathered now in peace about his throne,

      Were near me when my heart was full of throes,

        And longings vain alter a flying bliss,

        Which oft the fountain by the threshold froze:

      They must forgive me, mother! Tell them this:

        No more shall swell the love-dividing sigh;

        Down at their feet I lay my selfishness."

      The face grew passionate at this my cry;

        The gathering tears up to its eyebrims rose;

        It grew a trembling mist, that did not fly

      But slow dissolved. I wept as one of those

        Who wake outside the garden of their dream,

        And, lo, the droop-winged hours laborious close

      Its opal gates with stone and stake and beam.

      But glory went that glory more might come.

        Behold a countless multitude—no less!

        A host of faces, me besieging, dumb

      In the lone castle of my mournfulness!

        Had then my mother given the word I sent,

        Gathering my dear ones from the shining press?

      And had these others their love-aidance lent

        For full assurance of the pardon prayed?

        Would they concentre love, with sweet intent,

      On my self-love, to blast the evil shade?

        Ah, perfect vision! pledge of endless hope!

        Oh army of the holy spirit, arrayed

      In comfort's panoply! For words I grope—

        For clouds to catch your radiant dawn, my own,

        And tell your coming! From the highest cope

      Of blue, down to my roof-breach came a cone

        Of faces and their eyes on love's will borne,

        Bright heads down-bending like the forward blown,

      Heavy with ripeness, golden ears of corn,

        By