Kitabı oku: «A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul», sayfa 5

SEPTEMBER

1

 
     WE are a shadow and a shining, we!
     One moment nothing seems but what we see,
     Nor aught to rule but common circumstance—
     Nought is to seek but praise, to shun but chance;
     A moment more, and God is all in all,
     And not a sparrow from its nest can fall
     But from the ground its chirp goes up into his hall.
 

2

 
     I know at least which is the better mood.
     When on a heap of cares I sit and brood,
     Like Job upon his ashes, sorely vext,
     I feel a lower thing than when I stood
     The world's true heir, fearless as, on its stalk,
     A lily meeting Jesus in his walk:
     I am not all mood—I can judge betwixt.
 

3

 
     Such differing moods can scarce to one belong;
     Shall the same fountain sweet and bitter yield?
     Shall what bore late the dust-mood, think and brood
     Till it bring forth the great believing mood?
     Or that which bore the grand mood, bald and peeled,
     Sit down to croon the shabby sensual song,
     To hug itself, and sink from wrong to meaner wrong?
 

4

 
     In the low mood, the mere man acts alone,
     Moved by impulses which, if from within,
     Yet far outside the centre man begin;
     But in the grand mood, every softest tone
     Comes from the living God at very heart—
     From thee who infinite core of being art,
     Thee who didst call our names ere ever we could sin.
 

5

 
     There is a coward sparing in the heart,
     Offspring of penury and low-born fear:—
     Prayer must take heed nor overdo its part,
     Asking too much of him with open ear!
     Sinners must wait, not seek the very best,
     Cry out for peace, and be of middling cheer:—
     False heart! thou cheatest God, and dost thy life molest.
 

6

 
     Thou hungerest not, thou thirstest not enough.
     Thou art a temporizing thing, mean heart.
     Down-drawn, thou pick'st up straws and wretched stuff,
     Stooping as if the world's floor were the chart
     Of the long way thy lazy feet must tread.
     Thou dreamest of the crown hung o'er thy head—
     But that is safe—thou gatherest hairs and fluff!
 

7

 
     Man's highest action is to reach up higher,
     Stir up himself to take hold of his sire.
     Then best I love you, dearest, when I go
     And cry to love's life I may love you so
     As to content the yearning, making love,
     That perfects strength divine in weakness' fire,
     And from the broken pots calls out the silver dove.
 

8

 
     Poor am I, God knows, poor as withered leaf;
     Poorer or richer than, I dare not ask.
     To love aright, for me were hopeless task,
     Eternities too high to comprehend.
     But shall I tear my heart in hopeless grief,
     Or rise and climb, and run and kneel, and bend,
     And drink the primal love—so love in chief?
 

9

 
     Then love shall wake and be its own high life.
     Then shall I know 'tis I that love indeed—
     Ready, without a moment's questioning strife,
     To be forgot, like bursting water-bead,
     For the high good of the eternal dear;
     All hope, all claim, resting, with spirit clear,
     Upon the living love that every love doth breed.
 

10

 
     Ever seem to fail in utterance.
     Sometimes amid the swift melodious dance
     Of fluttering words—as if it had not been,
     The thought has melted, vanished into night;
     Sometimes I say a thing I did not mean,
     And lo! 'tis better, by thy ordered chance,
     Than what eluded me, floating too feathery light.
 

11

 
     If thou wouldst have me speak, Lord, give me speech.
     So many cries are uttered now-a-days,
     That scarce a song, however clear and true,
     Will thread the jostling tumult safe, and reach
     The ears of men buz-filled with poor denays:
     Barb thou my words with light, make my song new,
     And men will hear, or when I sing or preach.
 

12

 
     Can anything go wrong with me? I ask—
     And the same moment, at a sudden pain,
     Stand trembling. Up from the great river's brim
     Comes a cold breath; the farther bank is dim;
     The heaven is black with clouds and coming rain;
     High soaring faith is grown a heavy task,
     And all is wrong with weary heart and brain.
 

13

 
     "Things do go wrong. I know grief, pain, and fear.
     I see them lord it sore and wide around."
     From her fair twilight answers Truth, star-crowned,
     "Things wrong are needful where wrong things abound.
     Things go not wrong; but Pain, with dog and spear,
     False faith from human hearts will hunt and hound.
     The earth shall quake 'neath them that trust the solid ground."
 

14

 
     Things go not wrong when sudden I fall prone,
     But when I snatch my upheld hand from thine,
     And, proud or careless, think to walk alone.
     Then things go wrong, when I, poor, silly sheep,
     To shelves and pits from the good pasture creep;
     Not when the shepherd leaves the ninety and nine,
     And to the mountains goes, after the foolish one.
 

15

 
     Lo! now thy swift dogs, over stone and bush,
     After me, straying sheep, loud barking, rush.
     There's Fear, and Shame, and Empty-heart, and Lack,
     And Lost-love, and a thousand at their back!
     I see thee not, but know thou hound'st them on,
     And I am lost indeed—escape is none.
     See! there they come, down streaming on my track!
 

16

 
     I rise and run, staggering—double and run.—
     But whither?—whither?—whither for escape?
     The sea lies all about this long-necked cape—
     There come the dogs, straight for me every one—
     Me, live despair, live centre of alarms!—
     Ah! lo! 'twixt me and all his barking harms,
     The shepherd, lo!—I run—fall folded in his arms.
 

17

 
     There let the dogs yelp, let them growl and leap;
     It is no matter—I will go to sleep.
     Like a spent cloud pass pain and grief and fear,
     Out from behind it unchanged love shines clear.—
     Oh, save me, Christ!—I know not what I am,
     I was thy stupid, self-willed, greedy lamb,
     Would be thy honest and obedient sheep.
 

18

 
     Why is it that so often I return
     From social converse with a spirit worn,
     A lack, a disappointment—even a sting
     Of shame, as for some low, unworthy thing?—
     Because I have not, careful, first of all,
     Set my door open wide, back to the wall,
     Ere I at others' doors did knock and call.
 

19

 
     Yet more and more of me thou dost demand;
     My faith and hope in God alone shall stand,
     The life of law—not trust the rain and sun
     To draw the golden harvest o'er the land.
     I must not say—"This too will pass and die,"
     "The wind will change," "Round will the seasons run."
     Law is the body of will, of conscious harmony.
 

20

 
     Who trusts a law, might worship a god of wood;
     Half his soul slumbers, if it be not dead.
     He is a live thing shut in chaos crude,
     Hemmed in with dragons—a remorseless head
     Still hanging over its uplifted eyes.
     No; God is all in all, and nowhere dies—
     The present heart and thinking will of good.
 

21

 
     Law is our schoolmaster. Our master, Christ,
     Lived under all our laws, yet always prayed—
     So walked the water when the storm was highest.—
     Law is Thy father's; thou hast it obeyed,
     And it thereby subject to thee hast made—
     To rule it, master, for thy brethren's sakes:—
     Well may he guide the law by whom law's maker makes.
 

22

 
     Death haunts our souls with dissolution's strife;
     Soaks them with unrest; makes our every breath
     A throe, not action; from God's purest gift
     Wipes off the bloom; and on the harp of faith
     Its fretted strings doth slacken still and shift:
     Life everywhere, perfect, and always life,
     Is sole redemption from this haunting death.
 

23

 
     God, thou from death dost lift me. As I rise,
     Its Lethe from my garment drips and flows.
     Ere long I shall be safe in upper air,
     With thee, my life—with thee, my answered prayer
     Where thou art God in every wind that blows,
     And self alone, and ever, softly dies,
     There shall my being blossom, and I know it fair.
 

24

 
     I would dig, Master, in no field but thine,
     Would build my house only upon thy rock,
     Yet am but a dull day, with a sea-sheen!
     Why should I wonder then that they should mock,
     Who, in the limbo of things heard and seen,
     Hither and thither blowing, lose the shine
     Of every light that hangs in the firmament divine.
 

25

 
     Lord, loosen in me the hold of visible things;
     Help me to walk by faith and not by sight;
     I would, through thickest veils and coverings,
     See into the chambers of the living light.
     Lord, in the land of things that swell and seem,
     Help me to walk by the other light supreme,
     Which shows thy facts behind man's vaguely hinting dream.
 

26

 
     I see a little child whose eager hands
     Search the thick stream that drains the crowded street
     For possible things hid in its current slow.
     Near by, behind him, a great palace stands,
     Where kings might welcome nobles to their feet.
     Soft sounds, sweet scents, fair sights there only go—
     There the child's father lives, but the child does not know.
 

27

 
     On, eager, hungry, busy-seeking child,
     Rise up, turn round, run in, run up the stair.
     Far in a chamber from rude noise exiled,
     Thy father sits, pondering how thou dost fare.
     The mighty man will clasp thee to his breast:
     Will kiss thee, stroke the tangles of thy hair,
     And lap thee warm in fold on fold of lovely rest.
 

28

 
     The prince of this world came, and nothing found
     In thee, O master; but, ah, woe is me!
     He cannot pass me, on other business bound,
     But, spying in me things familiar, he
     Casts over me the shadow of his flight,
     And straight I moan in darkness—and the fight
     Begins afresh betwixt the world and thee.
 

29

 
     In my own heart, O master, in my thought,
     Betwixt the woolly sheep and hairy goat
     Not clearly I distinguish; but I think
     Thou knowest that I fight upon thy side.
     The how I am ashamed of; for I shrink
     From many a blow—am borne on the battle-tide,
     When I should rush to the front, and take thy foe by the throat.
 

30

 
     The enemy still hath many things in me;
     Yea, many an evil nest with open hole
     Gapes out to him, at which he enters free.
     But, like the impact of a burning coal,
     His presence mere straight rouses the garrison,
     And all are up in arms, and down on knee,
     Fighting and praying till the foe is gone.
 

OCTOBER

1

 
     REMEMBER, Lord, thou hast not made me good.
     Or if thou didst, it was so long ago
     I have forgotten—and never understood,
     I humbly think. At best it was a crude,
     A rough-hewn goodness, that did need this woe,
     This sin, these harms of all kinds fierce and rude,
     To shape it out, making it live and grow.
 

2

 
     But thou art making me, I thank thee, sire.
     What thou hast done and doest thou know'st well,
     And I will help thee:—gently in thy fire
     I will lie burning; on thy potter's-wheel
     I will whirl patient, though my brain should reel;
     Thy grace shall be enough the grief to quell,
     And growing strength perfect through weakness dire.
 

3

 
     I have not knowledge, wisdom, insight, thought,
     Nor understanding, fit to justify
     Thee in thy work, O Perfect. Thou hast brought
     Me up to this—and, lo! what thou hast wrought,
     I cannot call it good. But I can cry—
     "O enemy, the maker hath not done;
     One day thou shalt behold, and from the sight wilt run."
 

4

 
     The faith I will, aside is easily bent;
     But of thy love, my God, one glimpse alone
     Can make me absolutely confident—
     With faith, hope, joy, in love responsive blent.
     My soul then, in the vision mighty grown,
     Its father and its fate securely known,
     Falls on thy bosom with exultant moan.
 

5

 
     Thou workest perfectly. And if it seem
     Some things are not so well, 'tis but because
     They are too loving-deep, too lofty-wise,
     For me, poor child, to understand their laws:
     My highest wisdom half is but a dream;
     My love runs helpless like a falling stream:
     Thy good embraces ill, and lo! its illness dies!
 

6

 
     From sleep I wake, and wake to think of thee.
     But wherefore not with sudden glorious glee?
     Why burst not gracious on me heaven and earth
     In all the splendour of a new-day-birth?
     Why hangs a cloud betwixt my lord and me?
     The moment that my eyes the morning greet,
     My soul should panting rush to clasp thy father-feet.
 

7

 
     Is it because it is not thou I see,
     But only my poor, blotted fancy of thee?
     Oh! never till thyself reveal thy face,
     Shall I be flooded with life's vital grace.
     Oh make my mirror-heart thy shining-place,
     And then my soul, awaking with the morn,
     Shall be a waking joy, eternally new-born.
 

8

 
     Lord, in my silver is much metal base,
     Else should my being by this time have shown
     Thee thy own self therein. Therefore do I
     Wake in the furnace. I know thou sittest by,
     Refining—look, keep looking in to try
     Thy silver; master, look and see thy face,
     Else here I lie for ever, blank as any stone.
 

9

 
     But when in the dim silver thou dost look,
     I do behold thy face, though blurred and faint.
     Oh joy! no flaw in me thy grace will brook,
     But still refine: slow shall the silver pass
     From bright to brighter, till, sans spot or taint,
     Love, well content, shall see no speck of brass,
     And I his perfect face shall hold as in a glass.
 

10

 
     With every morn my life afresh must break
     The crust of self, gathered about me fresh;
     That thy wind-spirit may rush in and shake
     The darkness out of me, and rend the mesh
     The spider-devils spin out of the flesh—
     Eager to net the soul before it wake,
     That it may slumberous lie, and listen to the snake.
 

11

 
     'Tis that I am not good—that is enough;
     I pry no farther—that is not the way.
     Here, O my potter, is thy making stuff!
     Set thy wheel going; let it whir and play.
     The chips in me, the stones, the straws, the sand,
     Cast them out with fine separating hand,
     And make a vessel of thy yielding clay.
 

12

 
     What if it take a thousand years to make me,
     So me he leave not, angry, on the floor!—
     Nay, thou art never angry!—that would break me!
     Would I tried never thy dear patience sore,
     But were as good as thou couldst well expect me,
     Whilst thou dost make, I mar, and thou correct me!
     Then were I now content, waiting for something more.
 

13

 
     Only, my God, see thou that I content thee—
     Oh, take thy own content upon me, God!
     Ah, never, never, sure, wilt thou repent thee,
     That thou hast called thy Adam from the clod!
     Yet must I mourn that thou shouldst ever find me
     One moment sluggish, needing more of the rod
     Than thou didst think when thy desire designed me.
 

14

 
     My God, it troubles me I am not better.
     More help, I pray, still more. Thy perfect debtor
     I shall be when thy perfect child I am grown.
     My Father, help me—am I not thine own?
     Lo, other lords have had dominion o'er me,
     But now thy will alone I set before me:
     Thy own heart's life—Lord, thou wilt not abhor me!
 

15

 
     In youth, when once again I had set out
     To find thee, Lord, my life, my liberty,
     A window now and then, clouds all about,
     Would open into heaven: my heart forlorn
     First all would tremble with a solemn glee,
     Then, whelmed in peace, rest like a man outworn,
     That sees the dawn slow part the closed lids of the morn.
 

16

 
     Now I grow old, and the soft-gathered years
     Have calmed, yea dulled the heart's swift fluttering beat;
     But a quiet hope that keeps its household seat
     Is better than recurrent glories fleet.
     To know thee, Lord, is worth a many tears;
     And when this mildew, age, has dried away,
     My heart will beat again as young and strong and gay.
 

17

 
     Stronger and gayer tenfold!—but, O friends,
     Not for itself, nor any hoarded bliss.
     I see but vaguely whither my being tends,
     All vaguely spy a glory shadow-blent,
     Vaguely desire the "individual kiss;"
     But when I think of God, a large content
     Fills the dull air of my gray cloudy tent.
 

18

 
     Father of me, thou art my bliss secure.
     Make of me, maker, whatsoe'er thou wilt.
     Let fancy's wings hang moulting, hope grow poor,
     And doubt steam up from where a joy was spilt—
     I lose no time to reason it plain and clear,
     But fly to thee, my life's perfection dear:—
     Not what I think, but what thou art, makes sure.
 

19

 
     This utterance of spirit through still thought,
     This forming of heart-stuff in moulds of brain,
     Is helpful to the soul by which 'tis wrought,
     The shape reacting on the heart again;
     But when I am quite old, and words are slow,
     Like dying things that keep their holes for woe,
     And memory's withering tendrils clasp with effort vain?
 

20

 
     Thou, then as now, no less wilt be my life,
     And I shall know it better than before,
     Praying and trusting, hoping, claiming more.
     From effort vain, sick foil, and bootless strife,
     I shall, with childness fresh, look up to thee;
     Thou, seeing thy child with age encumbered sore,
     Wilt round him bend thine arm more carefully.
 

21

 
     And when grim Death doth take me by the throat,
     Thou wilt have pity on thy handiwork;
     Thou wilt not let him on my suffering gloat,
     But draw my soul out—gladder than man or boy,
     When thy saved creatures from the narrow ark
     Rushed out, and leaped and laughed and cried for joy,
     And the great rainbow strode across the dark.
 

22

 
     Against my fears, my doubts, my ignorance,
     I trust in thee, O father of my Lord!
     The world went on in this same broken dance,
     When, worn and mocked, he trusted and adored:
     I too will trust, and gather my poor best
     To face the truth-faced false. So in his nest
     I shall awake at length, a little scarred and scored.
 

23

 
     Things cannot look all right so long as I
     Am not all right who see—therefore not right
     Can see. The lamp within sends out the light
     Which shows the things; and if its rays go wry,
     Or are not white, they must part show a lie.
     The man, half-cured, did men not trees conclude,
     Because he moving saw what else had seemed a wood.
 

24

 
     Give me, take from me, as thou wilt. I learn—
     Slowly and stubbornly I learn to yield
     With a strange hopefulness. As from the field
     Of hard-fought battle won, the victor chief
     Turns thankfully, although his heart do yearn,
     So from my old things to thy new I turn,
     With sad, thee-trusting heart, and not in grief.
 

25

 
     If with my father I did wander free,
     Floating o'er hill and field where'er we would,
     And, lighting on the sward before the door,
     Strange faces through the window-panes should see,
     And strange feet standing where the loved had stood,
     The dear old place theirs all, as ours before—
     Should I be sorrowful, father, having thee?
 

26

 
     So, Lord, if thou tak'st from me all the rest,
     Thyself with each resumption drawing nigher,
     It shall but hurt me as the thorn of the briar,
     When I reach to the pale flower in its breast.
     To have thee, Lord, is to have all thy best,
     Holding it by its very life divine—
     To let my friend's hand go, and take his heart in mine.
 

27

 
     Take from me leisure, all familiar places;
     Take all the lovely things of earth and air
     Take from me books; take all my precious faces;
     Take words melodious, and their songful linking;
     Take scents, and sounds, and all thy outsides fair;
     Draw nearer, taking, and, to my sober thinking,
     Thou bring'st them nearer all, and ready to my prayer.
 

28

 
     No place on earth henceforth I shall count strange,
     For every place belongeth to my Christ.
     I will go calm where'er thou bid'st me range;
     Whoe'er my neighbour, thou art still my nighest.
     Oh my heart's life, my owner, will of my being!
     Into my soul thou every moment diest,
     In thee my life thus evermore decreeing.
 

29

 
     What though things change and pass, nor come again!
     Thou, the life-heart of all things, changest never.
     The sun shines on; the fair clouds turn to rain,
     And glad the earth with many a spring and river.
     The hearts that answer change with chill and shiver,
     That mourn the past, sad-sick, with hopeless pain,
     They know not thee, our changeless heart and brain.
 

30

 
     My halting words will some day turn to song—
     Some far-off day, in holy other times!
     The melody now prisoned in my rimes
     Will one day break aloft, and from the throng
     Of wrestling thoughts and words spring up the air;
     As from the flower its colour's sweet despair
     Issues in odour, and the sky's low levels climbs.
 

31

 
     My surgent thought shoots lark-like up to thee.
     Thou like the heaven art all about the lark.
     Whatever I surmise or know in me,
     Idea, or but symbol on the dark,
     Is living, working, thought-creating power
     In thee, the timeless father of the hour.
     I am thy book, thy song—thy child would be.