Читать книгу Poems. Volume 2 - George Meredith - Страница 6

The senses loving Earth or well or ill

Ravel yet more the riddle of our lot.

The mind is in their trammels, and lights not

By trimming fear-bred tales; nor does the will

To find in nature things which less may chill

An ardour that desires, unknowing what.

Till we conceive her living we go distraught,

At best but circle-windsails of a mill.

Seeing she lives, and of her joy of life

Creatively has given us blood and breath

For endless war and never wound unhealed,

The gloomy Wherefore of our battle-field

Solves in the Spirit, wrought of her through strife

To read her own and trust her down to death.