Читать книгу Rampolli - George MacDonald - Страница 10

     Who in his chamber sitteth lonely,

       And weepeth heavy, bitter tears;

     To whom in doleful colours, only

       Of want and woe, the world appears;

     Who of the Past, gulf-like receding,

       Would search with questing eyes the core,

     Down into which a sweet woe, pleading,

       Wiles him from all sides evermore—

     As if a treasure past believing

       Lay there below, for him high-piled,

     After whose lock, with bosom heaving,

       He breathless grasps in longing wild:

     He sees the Future, waste and arid,

       In hideous length before him stretch;

     About he roams, alone and harried,

       And seeks himself, poor restless wretch!—

     I fall upon his bosom, tearful:

       I once, like thee, with woe was wan;

     But I grew well, am strong and cheerful,

       And know the eternal rest of man.

     Thou too must find the one consoler

       Who inly loved, endured, and died—

     Even for them that wrought his dolour

       With thousand-fold rejoicing died.

     He died—and yet, fresh each to-morrow,

       His love and him thy heart doth hold;

     Thou mayst, consoled for every sorrow,

       Him in thy arms with ardour fold.

     New blood shall from his heart be driven

       Through thy dead bones like living wine;

     And once thy heart to him is given,

       Then is his heart for ever thine.

     What thou didst lose, he keeps it for thee;

       With him thy lost love thou shalt find;

     And what his hand doth once restore thee,

       That hand to thee will changeless bind.