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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2
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The same celestial air.
AFTER THE FASHION OF AN OLD EMBLEM
I have long enough been working down in my cellar,
Working spade and pick, boring-chisel and drill;
I long for wider spaces, airy, clear-dark, and stellar:
Successless labour never the love of it did fill.
More profit surely lies in a holy, pure quiescence,
In a setting forth of cups to catch the heavenly rain,
In a yielding of the being to the ever waiting presence,
In a lifting of the eyes upward, homeward again!
Up to my garret, its storm-windows and skylights!
There I'll lay me on the floor, and patient let the sun,
The moon and the stars, the blueness and the twilights
Do what their pleasure is, and wait till they have done.
But, lo, I hear a waving on the roof of great pinions!
'Tis the labour of a windmill, broad-spreading to the wind!
Lo, down there goes a. shaft through all the house-dominions!
I trace it to a cellar, whose door I cannot find.
But there I hear ever a keen diamond-drill in motion,
Now fast and now slow as the wind sits in the sails,
Drilling and boring to the far eternal ocean,
The living well of all wells whose water never fails.
So now I go no more to the cellar to my labour,
But up to my garret where those arms are ever going;
There the sky is ever o'er me, and the wind my blessed neighbour,
And the prayer-handle ready turns the sails to its blowing.
Blow, blow, my blessed wind; oh, keep ever blowing!
Keep the great windmill going full and free;
So shall the diamond-drill down below keep going
Till in burst the waters of God's eternal sea.
A PRAYER IN SICKNESS
Thou foldest me in sickness;
Thou callest through the cloud;
I batter with the thickness
Of the swathing, blinding shroud:
Oh, let me see thy face,
The only perfect grace
That thou canst show thy child.
O father, being-giver,
Take off the sickness-cloud;
Saviour, my life deliver
From this dull body-shroud:
Till I can see thy face
I am not full of grace,
I am not reconciled.
QUIET DEAD!
Quiet, quiet dead,
Have ye aught to say
From your hidden bed
In the earthy clay?
Fathers, children, mothers,
Ye are very quiet;
Can ye shout, my brothers?
I would know you by it!
Have ye any words
That are like to ours?
Have ye any birds?
Have ye any flowers?
Could ye rise a minute
When the sun is warm?
I would know you in it,
I would take no harm.
I am half afraid
In the ghostly night;
If ye all obeyed
I should fear you quite.
But when day is breaking
In the purple east
I would meet you waking—
One of you at least—
When the sun is tipping
Every stony block,
And the sun is slipping
Down the weathercock.
Quiet, quiet dead,
I will not perplex you;
What my tongue hath said
Haply it may vex you!
Yet I hear you speaking
AFTER THE FASHION OF AN OLD EMBLEM
I have long enough been working down in my cellar,
Working spade and pick, boring-chisel and drill;
I long for wider spaces, airy, clear-dark, and stellar:
Successless labour never the love of it did fill.
More profit surely lies in a holy, pure quiescence,
In a setting forth of cups to catch the heavenly rain,
In a yielding of the being to the ever waiting presence,
In a lifting of the eyes upward, homeward again!
Up to my garret, its storm-windows and skylights!
There I'll lay me on the floor, and patient let the sun,
The moon and the stars, the blueness and the twilights
Do what their pleasure is, and wait till they have done.
But, lo, I hear a waving on the roof of great pinions!
'Tis the labour of a windmill, broad-spreading to the wind!
Lo, down there goes a. shaft through all the house-dominions!
I trace it to a cellar, whose door I cannot find.
But there I hear ever a keen diamond-drill in motion,
Now fast and now slow as the wind sits in the sails,
Drilling and boring to the far eternal ocean,
The living well of all wells whose water never fails.
So now I go no more to the cellar to my labour,
But up to my garret where those arms are ever going;
There the sky is ever o'er me, and the wind my blessed neighbour,
And the prayer-handle ready turns the sails to its blowing.
Blow, blow, my blessed wind; oh, keep ever blowing!
Keep the great windmill going full and free;
So shall the diamond-drill down below keep going
Till in burst the waters of God's eternal sea.
A PRAYER IN SICKNESS
Thou foldest me in sickness;
Thou callest through the cloud;
I batter with the thickness
Of the swathing, blinding shroud:
Oh, let me see thy face,
The only perfect grace
That thou canst show thy child.
O father, being-giver,
Take off the sickness-cloud;
Saviour, my life deliver
From this dull body-shroud:
Till I can see thy face
I am not full of grace,
I am not reconciled.
QUIET DEAD!
Quiet, quiet dead,
Have ye aught to say
From your hidden bed
In the earthy clay?
Fathers, children, mothers,
Ye are very quiet;
Can ye shout, my brothers?
I would know you by it!
Have ye any words
That are like to ours?
Have ye any birds?
Have ye any flowers?
Could ye rise a minute
When the sun is warm?
I would know you in it,
I would take no harm.
I am half afraid
In the ghostly night;
If ye all obeyed
I should fear you quite.
But when day is breaking
In the purple east
I would meet you waking—
One of you at least—
When the sun is tipping
Every stony block,
And the sun is slipping
Down the weathercock.
Quiet, quiet dead,
I will not perplex you;
What my tongue hath said
Haply it may vex you!
Yet I hear you speaking
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
Последний отзыв
очень хорошая книга для студентов и учителей