Kitabı oku: «The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1», sayfa 28

IV

 
  The night is damp and warm and still,
    And soft with summer dreams;
  The buds are bursting at their will,
    And shy the half moon gleams.
 
 
  My soul is cool, as bathed within
    By dews that silent weep—
  Like child that has confessed his sin,
    And now will go to sleep.
 
 
  My body ages, form and hue;
    But when the spring winds blow,
  My spirit stirs and buds anew,
    Younger than long ago.
 
 
  Lord, make me more a child, and more,
    Till Time his own end bring,
  And out of every winter sore
    I pass into thy spring.
 

A BOOK OF DREAMS

PART I

I

 
  I lay and dreamed. The Master came,
    In seamless garment drest;
  I stood in bonds 'twixt love and shame,
    Not ready to be blest.
 
 
  He stretched his arms, and gently sought
    To clasp me to his heart;
  I shrank, for I, unthinking, thought
    He knew me but in part.
 
 
  I did not love him as I would!
    Embraces were not meet!
  I dared not ev'n stand where he stood—
    I fell and kissed his feet.
 
 
  Years, years have passed away since then;
    Oft hast thou come to me;
  The question scarce will rise again
    Whether I care for thee.
 
 
  In thee lies hid my unknown heart,
    In thee my perfect mind;
  In all my joys, my Lord, thou art
    The deeper joy behind.
 
 
  But when fresh light and visions bold
    My heart and hope expand,
  Up comes the vanity of old
    That now I understand:
 
 
  Away, away from thee I drift,
    Forgetting, not forgot;
  Till sudden yawns a downward rift—
    I start—and see thee not.
 
 
  Ah, then come sad, unhopeful hours!
    All in the dark I stray,
  Until my spirit fainting cowers
    On the threshold of the day.
 
 
  Hence not even yet I child-like dare
    Nestle unto thy breast,
  Though well I know that only there
    Lies hid the secret rest.
 
 
  But now I shrink not from thy will,
    Nor, guilty, judge my guilt;
  Thy good shall meet and slay my ill—
    Do with me as thou wilt.
 
 
  If I should dream that dream once more,
    Me in my dreaming meet;
  Embrace me, Master, I implore,
    And let me kiss thy feet.
 

II

 
  I stood before my childhood's home,
    Outside its belt of trees;
  All round my glances flit and roam
    O'er well-known hills and leas;
 
 
  When sudden rushed across the plain
    A host of hurrying waves,
  Loosed by some witchery of the brain
    From far, dream-hidden caves.
 
 
  And up the hill they clomb and came,
    A wild, fast-flowing sea:
  Careless I looked as on a game;
    No terror woke in me.
 
 
  For, just the belting trees within,
    I saw my father wait;
  And should the waves the summit win,
    There was the open gate!
 
 
  With him beside, all doubt was dumb;
    There let the waters foam!
  No mightiest flood would dare to come
    And drown his holy home!
 
 
  Two days passed by. With restless toss,
    The red flood brake its doors;
  Prostrate I lay, and looked across
    To the eternal shores.
 
 
  The world was fair, and hope was high;
    My friends had all been true;
  Life burned in me, and Death and I
    Would have a hard ado.
 
 
  Sudden came back the dream so good,
    My trouble to abate:
  At his own door my Father stood—
    I just without the gate!
 
 
  "Thou know'st what is, and what appears,"
    I said; "mine eyes to thine
  Are windows; thou hear'st with thine ears,
    But also hear'st with mine:"
 
 
  "Thou knowest my weak soul's dismay,
    How trembles my life's node;
  Thou art the potter, I am the clay—
    'Tis thine to bear the load."
 

III

 
  A piece of gold had left my purse,
    Which I had guarded ill;
  I feared a lack, but feared yet worse
    Regret returning still.
 
 
  I lifted up my feeble prayer
    To him who maketh strong,
  That thence no haunting thoughts of care
    Might do my spirit wrong.
 
 
  And even before my body slept,
    Such visions fair I had,
  That seldom soul with chamber swept
    Was more serenely glad.
 
 
  No white-robed angel floated by
    On slow, reposing wings;
  I only saw, with inward eye,
    Some very common things.
 
 
  First rose the scarlet pimpernel
    With burning purple heart;
  I saw within it, and could spell
    The lesson of its art.
 
 
  Then came the primrose, child-like flower,
    And looked me in the face;
  It bore a message full of power,
    And confidence, and grace.
 
 
  And breezes rose on pastures trim
    And bathed me all about;
  Wool-muffled sheep-bells babbled dim,
    Or only half spoke out.
 
 
  Sudden it closed, some door of heaven,
    But what came out remained:
  The poorest man my loss had given
    For that which I had gained!
 
 
  Thou gav'st me, Lord, a brimming cup
    Where I bemoaned a sip;
  How easily thou didst make up
   For that my fault let slip!
 
 
  What said the flowers? what message new
    Embalmed my soul with rest?
  I scarce can tell—only they grew
    Right out of God's own breast.
 
 
  They said, to every flower he made
    God's thought was root and stem—
  Perhaps said what the lilies said
    When Jesus looked at them.
 

IV

 
  Sometimes, in daylight hours, awake,
    Our souls with visions teem
  Which to the slumbering brain would take
    The form of wondrous dream.
 
 
  Once, with my thought-sight, I descried
    A plain with hills around;
  A lordly company on each side
    Leaves bare the middle ground.
 
 
  Great terrace-steps at one end rise
    To something like a throne,
  And thither all the radiant eyes,
    As to a centre, shone.
 
 
  A snow-white glory, dim-defined,
    Those seeking eyes beseech—
  Him who was not in fire or wind,
    But in the gentle speech.
 
 
  They see his eyes far-fixed wait:
    Adown the widening vale
  They, turning, look; their breath they bate,
    With dread-filled wonder pale.
 
 
  In raiment worn and blood-bedewed,
    With faltering step and numb,
  Toward the shining multitude
    A weary man did come.
 
 
  His face was white, and still-composed,
    As of a man nigh dead;
  The eyes, through eyelids half unclosed,
    A faint, wan splendour shed.
 
 
  Drops on his hair disordered hung
    Like rubies dull of hue;
  His hands were pitifully wrung,
    And stricken through and through.
 
 
  Silent they stood with tender awe:
    Between their ranks he came;
  Their tearful eyes looked down, and saw
    What made his feet so lame.
 
 
  He reached the steps below the throne,
    There sank upon his knees;
  Clasped his torn hands with stifled groan,
    And spake in words like these:—
 
 
  "Father, I am come back. Thy will
    Is sometimes hard to do."
  From all that multitude so still
    A sound of weeping grew.
 
 
  Then mournful-glad came down the One;
    He kneeled and clasped his child;
  Lay on his breast the outworn man,
    And wept until he smiled.
 
 
  The people, who, in bitter woe
    And love, had sobbed and cried,
  Raised aweful eyes at length—and, Lo,
    The two sat side by side!
 

V

 
  Dreaming I slept. Three crosses stood
    High in the gloomy air;
  One bore a thief, and one the Good;
    The other waited bare.
 
 
  A soldier came up to the place,
    And took me for the third;
  My eyes they sought the Master's face,
    My will the Master's word.
 
 
  He bent his head; I took the sign,
    And gave the error way;
  Gesture nor look nor word of mine
    The secret should betray.
 
 
  The soldier from the cross's foot
    Turned. I stood waiting there:
  That grim, expectant tree, for fruit
    My dying form must bear.
 
 
  Up rose the steaming mists of doubt
    And chilled both heart and brain;
  They shut the world of vision out,
    And fear saw only pain.
 
 
  "Ah me, my hands! the hammer's blow!
    The nails that rend and pierce!
  The shock may stun, but, slow and slow,
    The torture will grow fierce."
 
 
  "Alas, the awful fight with death!
    The hours to hang and die!
  The thirsting gasp for common breath!
    The weakness that would cry!"
 
 
  My soul returned: "A faintness soon
    Will shroud thee in its fold;
  The hours will bring the fearful noon;
    'Twill pass—and thou art cold."
 
 
  "'Tis his to care that thou endure,
    To curb or loose the pain;
  With bleeding hands hang on thy cure—
    It shall not be in vain."
 
 
  But, ah, the will, which thus could quail,
    Might yield—oh, horror drear!
  Then, more than love, the fear to fail
    Kept down the other fear.
 
 
  I stood, nor moved. But inward strife
    The bonds of slumber broke:
  Oh! had I fled, and lost the life
    Of which the Master spoke?
 

VI

 
  Methinks I hear, as o'er this life's dim dial
    The last shades darken, friends say, "He was good;"
  I struggling fail to speak my faint denial—
    They whisper, "His humility withstood."
 
 
  I, knowing better, part with love unspoken;
    And find the unknown world not all unknown:
  The bonds that held me from my centre broken,
    I seek my home, the Saviour's homely throne.
 
 
  How he will greet me, walking on, I wonder;
    I think I know what I will say to him;
  I fear no sapphire floor of cloudless thunder,
    I fear no passing vision great and dim.
 
 
  But he knows all my weary sinful story:
    How will he judge me, pure, and strong, and fair?
  I come to him in all his conquered glory,
    Won from the life that I went dreaming there!
 
 
  I come; I fall before him, faintly saying:
    "Ah, Lord, shall I thy loving pardon win?
  Earth tempted me; my walk was but a straying;
    I have no honour—but may I come in?"
 
 
  I hear him say: "Strong prayer did keep me stable;
    To me the earth was very lovely too:
  Thou shouldst have prayed; I would have made thee able
    To love it greatly!—but thou hast got through."
 

PART II

I

 
  A gloomy and a windy day!
    No sunny spot is bare;
  Dull vapours, in uncomely play,
    Go weltering through the air:
  If through the windows of my mind
    I let them come and go,
  My thoughts will also in the wind
    Sweep restless to and fro.
 
 
  I drop my curtains for a dream.—
    What comes? A mighty swan,
  With plumage like a sunny gleam,
    And folded airy van!
  She comes, from sea-plains dreaming, sent
    By sea-maids to my shore,
  With stately head proud-humbly bent,
    And slackening swarthy oar.
 
 
  Lone in a vaulted rock I lie,
     A water-hollowed cell,
  Where echoes of old storms go by,
    Like murmurs in a shell.
  The waters half the gloomy way
    Beneath its arches come;
  Throbbing to outside billowy play,
    The green gulfs waver dumb.
 
 
  Undawning twilights through the cave
    In moony glimmers go,
  Half from the swan above the wave,
    Half from the swan below,
  As to my feet she gently drifts
    Through dim, wet-shiny things,
  And, with neck low-curved backward, lifts
    The shoulders of her wings.
 
 
  Old earth is rich with many a nest
    Of softness ever new,
  Deep, delicate, and full of rest—
    But loveliest there are two:
  I may not tell them save to minds
    That are as white as they;
  But none will hear, of other kinds—
    They all are turned away.
 
 
  On foamy mounds between the wings
    Of a white sailing swan,
  A flaky bed of shelterings,
    There you will find the one.
  The other—well, it will not out,
    Nor need I tell it you;
  I've told you one, and can you doubt,
    When there are only two?
 
 
  Fill full my dream, O splendid bird!
    Me o'er the waters bear:
  Never was tranquil ocean stirred
    By ship so shapely fair!
  Nor ever whiteness found a dress
    In which on earth to go,
  So true, profound, and rich, unless
    It was the falling snow!
 
 
  Her wings, with flutter half-aloft,
    Impatient fan her crown;
  I cannot choose but nestle soft
    Into the depth of down.
  With oary-pulsing webs unseen,
    Out the white frigate sweeps;
  In middle space we hang, between
    The air- and ocean-deeps.
 
 
  Up the wave's mounting, flowing side,
    With stroke on stroke we rack;
  As down the sinking slope we slide,
    She cleaves a talking track—
  Like heather-bells on lonely steep,
    Like soft rain on the glass,
  Like children murmuring in their sleep,
    Like winds in reedy grass.
 
 
  Her white breast heaving like a wave,
    She beats the solemn time;
  With slow strong sweep, intent and grave,
    Hearkens the ripples rime.
  All round, from flat gloom upward drawn,
    I catch the gleam, vague, wide,
  With which the waves, from dark to dawn,
    Heave up the polished side.
 
 
  The night is blue; the stars aglow
    Crowd the still, vaulted steep,
  Sad o'er the hopeless, restless flow
    Of the self-murmurous deep—
  A thicker night, with gathered moan!
    A dull dethroned sky!
  The shadows of its stars alone
    Left in to know it by!
 
 
  What faints across yon lifted loop
    Where the west gleams its last?
  With sea-veiled limbs, a sleeping group
    Of Nereids dreaming past.
  Row on, fair swan;—who knows but I,
    Ere night hath sought her cave,
  May see in splendour pale float by
    The Venus of the wave!