A Hidden Life and Other Poems. George MacDonald

We find no spring, except in winter prayers.

      Now he, who strode a king across his fields,

       Crept slowly through the breathings of the spring;

       And sometimes wept in secret, that the earth,

       Which dwelt so near his heart with all its suns,

       And moons, and maidens, soon would lie afar

       Across some unknown, sure-dividing waste.

       Yet think not, though I fall upon the sad,

       And lingering listen to the fainting tones,

       Before I strike new chords that seize the old

       And waft their essence up the music-stair—

       Think not that he was always sad, nor dared

       To look the blank unknown full in the void:

       For he had hope in God, the growth of years,

       Ponderings, and aspirations from a child,

       And prayers and readings and repentances.

       Something within him ever sought to come

       At peace with something deeper in him still.

       Some sounds sighed ever for a harmony

       With other deeper, fainter tones, that still

       Drew nearer from the unknown depths, wherein

       The Individual goeth out in God,

       And smoothed the discord ever as they grew.

       Now he went back the way the music came,

       Hoping some nearer sign of God at hand;

       And, most of all, to see the very face

       That in Judea once, at supper time,

       Arose a heaven of tenderness above

       The face of John, who leaned upon the breast

       Soon to lie down in its last weariness.

      And as the spring went on, his budding life

       Swelled up and budded towards the invisible,

       Bursting the earthy mould wherein it lay.

       He never thought of churchyards, as before,

       When he was strong; but ever looked above,

       Away from the green earth to the blue sky,

       And thanked God that he died not in the cold.

       "For," said he, "I would rather go abroad

       When the sun shines, and birds are happy here.

       For, though it may be we shall know no place,

       But only mighty realms of making thought,

       (Not living in creation any more,

       But evermore creating our own worlds)

       Yet still it seems as if I had to go

       Into the sea of air that floats and heaves,

       And swings its massy waves around our earth,

       And may feel wet to the unclothed soul;

       And I would rather go when it is full

       Of light and blueness, than when grey and fog

       Thicken it with the steams of the old earth.

       Now in the first of summer I shall die;

       Lying, mayhap, at sunset, sinking asleep,

       And going with the light, and from the dark;

       And when the earth is dark, they'll say: 'He is dead;'

       But I shall say: 'Ah God! I live and love;

       The earth is fair, but this is fairer still;

       My dear ones, they were very dear; but now

       The past is past; for they are dearer still.'

       So I shall go, in starlight, it may be,

       Or lapt in moonlight ecstasies, to seek

       The heart of all, the man of all, my friend;

       Whom I shall know my own beyond all loves,

       Because he makes all loving true and deep;

       And I live on him, in him, he in me."

      The weary days and nights had taught him much;

       Had sent him, as a sick child creeps along,

       Until he hides him in his mother's breast,

       Seeking for God. For all he knew before

       Seemed as he knew it not. He needed now

       To feel God's arms around him hold him close,

       Close to his heart, ere he could rest an hour.

       And God was very good to him, he said.

      Ah God! we need the winter as the spring;

       And thy poor children, knowing thy great heart,

       And that thou bearest thy large share of grief,

       Because thou lovest goodness more than joy

       In them thou lovest—so dost let them grieve,

       Will cease to vex thee with their peevish cries,

       Will look and smile, though they be sorrowful;

       And not the less pray for thy help, when pain

       Is overstrong, coming to thee for rest.

       One day we praise thee for, without, the pain.

      One night, as oft, he lay and could not sleep.

       His soul was like an empty darkened room,

       Through which strange pictures pass from the outer world;

       While regnant will lay passive and looked on.

       But the eye-tube through which the shadows came

       Was turned towards the past. One after one

       Arose old scenes, old sorrows, old delights.

       Ah God! how sad are all things that grow old;

       Even the rose-leaves have a mournful scent,

       And old brown letters are more sad than graves;

       Old kisses lie about the founts of tears,

       Like autumn leaves around the winter wells;

       And yet they cannot die. A smile once smiled

       Is to eternity a smile—no less;

       And that which smiles and kisses, liveth still;

       And thou canst do great wonders, Wonderful!

      At length, as ever in such vision-hours,

       Came the bright maiden, riding the great horse.

       And then at once the will sprang up awake,

       And, like a necromantic sage, forbade

       What came unbidden to depart at will.

       So on that form he rested his sad thoughts,

       Till he began to wonder what her lot;

       How she had fared in spinning history

       Into a psyche-cradle, where to die;

       And then emerge—what butterfly? pure white,

       With silver dust of feathers on its wings?

       Or that dull red, seared with its ebon spots?

       And then he thought: "I know some women fail,

       And cease to be so very beautiful.

       And I have heard men rave of certain eyes,

       In which I could not rest a moment's space."

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