Читать книгу Dream-Songs for the Belovèd - Eleanor Farjeon - Страница 5

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Love the God at last has unclouded his eyes....

"Newcomer, what are these things that you bear unto me?"

"Songs, the flower and fruit of my wondering heart,

All the creating I have to offer to you."

"Nothing may be created of you in my house,

Drift your little singing away on the wind.

You cannot hang me about with a music of sighs,

You cannot deck me with roseal vapours of song,

Shape sweet words in a garland to circle my brows

Or make a jewel of speech to be worn in my bosom.

"Out of soft rain of tears and glamour of joy

Iris-arcs though you weave for your heart's-delight,

Bring me no luminous dream of the saffron and gold,

Bring me no dews of the emerald flame of the grass,

Bring me no vanishing fires of the poppy and rose,

No melting mirage of heavenly hyacinth light,

For I take nothing of colour of those who are mine.

"I it is colour my chosen ones, never they me,

I am not theirs to possess, they are mine, they are mine.

Did you believe I was given to you as a gift,

Something to treasure and care for and handle and clothe?

Lo! it is you are my gift to be treasured and clothed,

Fashion no garments for me, mine has fallen on you.

"How should men colour me? sing me? array me in light?

How should they think me, conceive me, endow me with form?

Mine is the thought, the conception none other's than mine,

You and the children of men are the birth I bring forth,

Not within you do I enter, you enter in me.

"All is expressed for you finally here in my heart.

Struggle no more to express me. My silences sing."