Читать книгу The Victories of Love, and Other Poems - Coventry Patmore - Страница 5

Yonder the sombre vessel rides

Where my obscure condition hides.

Waves scud to shore against the wind

That flings the sprinkling surf behind;

In port the bickering pennons show

Which way the ships would gladly go;

Through Edgecumb Park the rooted trees

Are tossing, reckless, in the breeze;

On top of Edgecumb’s firm-set tower,

As foils, not foibles, of its power,

The light vanes do themselves adjust

To every veering of the gust:

By me alone may nought be given

To guidance of the airs of heaven?

In battle or peace, in calm or storm,

Should I my daily task perform,

Better a thousand times for love,

Who should my secret soul reprove?

   Beholding one like her, a man

Longs to lay down his life!  How can

Aught to itself seem thus enough,

When I have so much need thereof?

Blest in her place, blissful is she;

And I, departing, seem to be

Like the strange waif that comes to run

A few days flaming near the sun,

And carries back, through boundless night,

Its lessening memory of light.

   Oh, my dear Mother, I confess

To a deep grief of homelessness,

Unfelt, save once, before.  ’Tis years

Since such a shower of girlish tears

Disgraced me!  But this wretched Inn,

At Plymouth, is so full of din,

Talkings and trampings to and fro.

And then my ship, to which I go

To-night, is no more home.  I dread,

As strange, the life I long have led;

And as, when first I went to school,

And found the horror of a rule

Which only ask’d to be obey’d,

I lay and wept, of dawn afraid,

And thought, with bursting heart, of one

Who, from her little, wayward son,

Required obedience, but above

Obedience still regarded love,

So change I that enchanting place,

The abode of innocence and grace

And gaiety without reproof,

For the black gun-deck’s louring roof.

Blind and inevitable law

Which makes light duties burdens, awe

Which is not reverence, laughters gain’d

At cost of purities profaned,

And whatsoever most may stir

Remorseful passion towards her,

Whom to behold is to depart

From all defect of life and heart.

   But, Mother, I shall go on shore,

And see my Cousin yet once more!

’Twere wild to hope for her, you say.

I’ve torn and cast those words away.

Surely there’s hope!  For life ’tis well

Love without hope’s impossible;

So, if I love, it is that hope

Is not outside the outer scope

Of fancy.  You speak truth: this hour

I must resist, or lose the power.

What! and, when some short months are o’er,

Be not much other than before?

Drop from the bright and virtuous sphere

In which I’m held but while she’s dear?

For daily life’s dull, senseless mood,

Slay the fine nerves of gratitude

And sweet allegiance, which I owe

Whether the debt be weal or woe?

Nay, Mother, I, forewarn’d, prefer

To want for all in wanting her.

   For all?  Love’s best is not bereft

Ever from him to whom is left

The trust that God will not deceive

His creature, fashion’d to believe

The prophecies of pure desire.

Not loss, not death, my love shall tire.

A mystery does my heart foretell;

Nor do I press the oracle

For explanations.  Leave me alone,

And let in me love’s will be done.