Эротические рассказы

The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.

The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald - George MacDonald


Скачать книгу
holier,

       Is birthright not the same?

      Ill names, of proud religion born—

       She'll wear the worst that comes;

       Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn,

       To share the healing crumbs!

      "Truth, Lord; and yet the puppies small

       Under the table eat

       The crumbs the little ones let fall—

       That is not thought unmeet."

      The prayer rebuff could not amate

       Was not like water spilt:

       "O woman, but thy faith is great!

       Be it even as thou wilt."

      Thrice happy she who yet will dare,

       Who, baffled, prayeth still!

       He, if he may, will grant her prayer

       In fulness of her will!

      V.

       THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

       Table of Contents

      Forth from the city, with the load

       That makes the trampling low,

       They walk along the dreary road

       That dust and ashes go.

      The other way, toward the gate

       Their trampling strong and loud,

       With hope of liberty elate,

       Comes on another crowd.

      Nearer and nearer draw the twain—

       One with a wailing cry!

       How could the Life let such a train

       Of death and tears go by!

      "Weep not," he said, and touched the bier:

       They stand, the dead who bear;

       The mother knows nor hope nor fear—

       He waits not for her prayer.

      "Young man, I say to thee, arise."

       Who hears, he must obey:

       Up starts the body; wide the eyes

       Flash wonder and dismay.

      The lips would speak, as if they caught

       Some converse sudden broke

       When the great word the dead man sought,

       And Hades' silence woke.

      The lips would speak: the eyes' wild stare

       Gives place to ordered sight;

       The murmur dies upon the air;

       The soul is dumb with light.

      He brings no news; he has forgot,

       Or saw with vision weak:

       Thou sees! all our unseen lot,

       And yet thou dost not speak.

      Hold'st thou the news, as parent might

       A too good gift, away,

       Lest we should neither sleep at night,

       Nor do our work by day?

      The mother leaves us not a spark

       Of her triumph over grief;

       Her tears alone have left their mark

       Upon the holy leaf:

      Oft gratitude will thanks benumb,

       Joy will our laughter quell:

       May not Eternity be dumb

       With things too good to tell?

      Her straining arms her lost one hold;

       Question she asketh none;

       She trusts for all he leaves untold;

       Enough, to clasp her son!

      The ebb is checked, the flow begun,

       Sent rushing to the gate:

       Death turns him backward to the sun,

       And life is yet our fate!

      VI.

       THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND.

       Table of Contents

      For years eighteen she, patient soul,

       Her eyes had graveward sent;

       Her earthly life was lapt in dole,

       She was so bowed and bent.

      What words! To her? Who can be near?

       What tenderness of hands!

       Oh! is it strength, or fancy mere?

       New hope, or breaking bands?

      The pent life rushes swift along

       Channels it used to know;

       Up, up, amid the wondering throng,

       She rises firm and slow—

      To bend again in grateful awe—

       For will is power at length—

       In homage to the living Law

       Who gives her back her strength.

      Uplifter of the down-bent head!

       Unbinder of the bound!

       Who seest all the burdened

       Who only see the ground!

      Although they see thee not, nor cry,

       Thou watchest for the hour

       To lift the forward-beaming eye,

       To wake the slumbering power!

      Thy hand will wipe the stains of time

       From off the withered face;

       Upraise thy bowed old men, in prime

       Of youthful manhood's grace!

      Like summer days from winter's tomb,

       Shall rise thy women fair;

       Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom,

       Lo, is not anywhere!

      All ills of life shall melt away

       As melts a cureless woe,

       When, by the dawning of the day

       Surprised, the dream must go.

      I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too,

       Whate'er the needful cure;

       The great best only thou wilt do,

       And hoping I endure.

      VII.

       THE WOMAN WHO CAME BEHIND HIM IN THE CROWD.

       Table of Contents

      Near him she stole, rank after rank;

       She feared approach too loud;

       She touched his garment's hem, and shrank

       Back in the sheltering crowd.

      A shame-faced gladness thrills her frame:

       Her twelve years' fainting prayer

       Is heard at last! she is the same

      


Скачать книгу
Яндекс.Метрика