A Hidden Life and Other Poems. George MacDonald

      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."

      Straightway the fount of possibilities

      Began to gurgle, under, in his soul.

      Anon the lava-stream burst forth amain,

      And glowed, and scorched, and blasted as it flowed.

      For purest souls sometimes have direst fears,

      In ghost-hours when the shadow of the earth

      Is cast on half her children, from the sun

      Who is afar and busy with the rest.

      "If my high lady be but only such

      As some men say of women—very pure

      When dressed in white, and shining in men's eyes,

      And with the wavings of great unborn wings

      Around them in the aether of the souls,

      Felt at the root where senses meet in one

      Like dim-remembered airs and rhymes and hues;

      But when alone, at best a common thing,

      With earthward thoughts, and feet that are of earth!

      Ah no—it cannot be! She is of God.

      But then, fair things may perish; higher life

      Gives deeper death; fair gifts make fouler faults:

      Women themselves—I dare not think the rest.

      And then they say that in her London world,

      They