Читать книгу The Unknown Eros - Coventry Patmore - Страница 13

   The stony rock of death’s insensibility

Well’d yet awhile with honey of thy love

And then was dry;

Nor could thy picture, nor thine empty glove,

Nor all thy kind, long letters, nor the band

Which really spann’d

Thy body chaste and warm,

Thenceforward move

Upon the stony rock their wearied charm.

At last, then, thou wast dead.

Yet would I not despair,

But wrought my daily task, and daily said

Many and many a fond, unfeeling prayer,

To keep my vows of faith to thee from harm.

In vain.

‘For ’tis,’ I said, ‘all one,

The wilful faith, which has no joy or pain,

As if ’twere none.’

Then look’d I miserably round

If aught of duteous love were left undone,

And nothing found.

But, kneeling in a Church, one Easter-Day,

It came to me to say:

‘Though there is no intelligible rest,

In Earth or Heaven,

For me, but on her breast,

I yield her up, again to have her given,

Or not, as, Lord, Thou wilt, and that for aye.’

And the same night, in slumber lying,

I, who had dream’d of thee as sad and sick and dying,

And only so, nightly for all one year,

Did thee, my own most Dear,

Possess,

In gay, celestial beauty nothing coy,

And felt thy soft caress

With heretofore unknown reality of joy.

But, in our mortal air,

None thrives for long upon the happiest dream,

And fresh despair

Bade me seek round afresh for some extreme

Of unconceiv’d, interior sacrifice

Whereof the smoke might rise

To God, and ’mind him that one pray’d below.

And so,

In agony, I cried:

‘My Lord, if thy strange will be this,

That I should crucify my heart,

Because my love has also been my pride,

I do submit, if I saw how, to bliss

Wherein She has no part.’

And I was heard,

And taken at my own remorseless word.

O, my most Dear,

Was’t treason, as I fear?

’Twere that, and worse, to plead thy veiled mind,

Kissing thy babes, and murmuring in mine ear,

‘Thou canst not be

Faithful to God, and faithless unto me!’

Ah, prophet kind!

I heard, all dumb and blind

With tears of protest; and I cannot see

But faith was broken.  Yet, as I have said,

My heart was dead,

Dead of devotion and tired memory,

When a strange grace of thee

In a fair stranger, as I take it, bred

To her some tender heed,

Most innocent

Of purpose therewith blent,

And pure of faith, I think, to thee; yet such

That the pale reflex of an alien love,

So vaguely, sadly shown,

Did her heart touch

Above

All that, till then, had woo’d her for its own.

And so the fear, which is love’s chilly dawn,

Flush’d faintly upon lids that droop’d like thine,

And made me weak,

By thy delusive likeness doubly drawn,

And Nature’s long suspended breath of flame

Persuading soft, and whispering Duty’s name,

Awhile to smile and speak

With this thy Sister sweet, and therefore mine;

Thy Sister sweet,

Who bade the wheels to stir

Of sensitive delight in the poor brain,

Dead of devotion and tired memory,

So that I lived again,

And, strange to aver,

With no relapse into the void inane,

For thee;

But (treason was’t?) for thee and also her.