Читать книгу The Rosary of Pan - Alexander Maitland Stephen - Страница 13

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A PLACE of dreams—a sun-drenched slope,

Clothed fair with tawny grasses, met

The waters of a strait which ran

Between me and the mountain-wall which lay

A rugged rampart of our Chosen Land.

Framed by the sinuous line of sea and sky,

Slim firs, lean sentinels drowsed in the glare

Of noon, while whispering winds crept stealthily

About. But all was silence saving where

The pirate bees, on pillage bent, were caught

Within the golden tangle of the broom.

A place of dreams! High hopes without despair,

And gleams of life, unmarred by pain, beauty

Above all forms, the living light of Truth,

Made manifest to eyes not sealed by doubt and fear

Lived here in mute expectancy. Dewfall and moonrise,

Dawn and noon-day’s beams evoked no voice

To body forth the soul of this, their child.

A place of dreams! ’Tis man’s sole gift, divine,

To mould the form, to carve with lightning thought

An image to enshrine the spirit’s flame and give

To Truth and Beauty shape in space and time.

Mayhap a leaf slid down to nestle in the grass.

Perchance a spirit stooped to whisper as he passed:

“Live on as if each moment were thy last.

What we have given thee to know of Love’s

Swift fire is as a spark of that great flame

Which lights the worlds. The shadows are thine own.

To Know is well. Hast thou the Will to cleave

Thy way clear to the heart of God and Dare

To live within the splendour of this love?”

O place of dreams! The voice, a windswept shadow,

Passed. But in my heart enshrined

Remains the vision of the days to be.

The sun-lit sanctuary waits. Life calls for Love

To fill his days. The answer lies with thee.