Читать книгу A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul - George MacDonald - Страница 5

     LORD, I do choose the higher than my will.

     I would be handled by thy nursing arms

     After thy will, not my infant alarms.

     Hurt me thou wilt—but then more loving still,

     If more can be and less, in love's perfect zone!

     My fancy shrinks from least of all thy harms,

     But do thy will with me—I am thine own.

     Some things wilt thou not one day turn to dreams?

     Some dreams wilt thou not one day turn to fact?

     The thing that painful, more than should be, seems,

     Shall not thy sliding years with them retract—

     Shall fair realities not counteract?

     The thing that was well dreamed of bliss and joy—

     Wilt thou not breathe thy life into the toy?

     I have had dreams of absolute delight,

     Beyond all waking bliss—only of grass,

     Flowers, wind, a peak, a limb of marble white;