Читать книгу The Rosary of Pan - Alexander Maitland Stephen - Страница 14

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SPIRIT of Beauty, I have seen thy face

And lived to tell of it—anon,

The rapture of thy warm embrace has struck

Through every vein its hidden fire and thrilled

Like wandering music every chord of life,

Till, like a wind-blown lyre its symphony

Was one with Nature’s and the heart of God.

Soft bloom of summer morns, whose smile

Breaks through the mist and grows

To laughter as the day spring floods the hills

With light—the fragrance of all roses, which

Have bloomed, in gardens old, for sweet Love’s sake—

The gleam of waters under star-lit skies, that fling

Like largesse all their wealth of jewels on high

To watch them fall in broken lights below—

The yearning touch of earth in spring—the clean, sharp

Tang of leaf and bud, filled with the season’s urge

To bear, in time, fulfilment—fruit and flower—

All that quick, wistful wonder that the questing soul

Feels pulsing through the world of sense—

The hidden magic at the heart of things—

All this and more are bodied in thy form,

Limned in thy features and inwrought

Into the shrine wherein thy godhead dwells.

Yet these are but the vestures of thy soul—

The clouds which veil and half reveal thy light

As those, shell-tinted, which enfold the moon

In iridescent robes. The ray that fell from darkness

Through the primal void, kindling the morning stars,

Was one with Thee. The pure, cold flame

Of deathless will glows in thy wondrous eyes.

He who has gazed into their depths will go

Forth strong to conquer. He who has heard

Thy laughter knows the primal sound

Of limitless desire that burgeoned forth

In sun and stars—the radiant flower of life.

But he, who for an hour hath held thee close

Will know himself a God—immortal as the Love

Which gave thee birth.