A Hidden Life and Other Poems. George MacDonald

      But next day, and the next, he was too worn

      With the unrest of this chaotic night—

      As if a man had sprung to life before

      The spirit of God moved on the waters' face,

      And made his dwelling ready, who in pain,

      Himself untuned, groaned for a harmony,

      For order and for law around his life—

      Too tired he was to do as he had planned.

      But on the next, a genial south-born wind

      Waved the blue air beneath the golden sun,

      Bringing glad news of summer from the south.

      Into his little room the bright rays shone,

      And, darting through the busy blazing fire,

      Turning it ghostly pale, slew it almost;

      As the great sunshine of the further life

      Quenches the glow of this, and giveth death.

      He had lain gazing at the wondrous strife

      And strange commingling of the sun and fire,

      Like spiritual and vital energies,

      Whereof the one doth bear the other first,

      And then destroys it for a better birth;

      And now he rose to help the failing fire,

      Because the sunshine came not near enough

      To do for both. And then he clothed himself,

      And sat him down betwixt the sun and fire,

      And got him ink and paper, and began

      And wrote with earnest dying heart as thus.

      "Lady, I owe thee much. Nay, do not look

      To find my name; for though I write it here,

      I date as from the churchyard, where I lie

      Whilst thou art reading; and thou know'st me not.

      I dare to write, because I am crowned by death

      Thy equal. If my boldness should offend,

      I, pure in my intent, hide with the ghosts,

      Where thou wilt never meet me, until thou

      Knowest that death, like God, doth make of one.

      "But pardon, lady. Ere I had begun,

      My thoughts moved towards thee with a gentle flow

      That bore a depth of waters. When I took

      My pen to write, they rushed into a gulf,

      Precipitate and foamy. Can it be,

      That death who humbles all hath made me proud?

      Lady, thy loveliness hath walked my brain,

      As if I were thy heritage in sooth,

      Bequeathed from sires beyond all story's reach.

      For I have loved thee from afar, and long;

      Joyous in having seen what lifted me,

      By very power to see, above myself.

      Thy beauty hath made beautiful my life;

      Thy virtue made mine strong to be itself.

      Thy form hath put on every changing dress

      Of name, and circumstance, and history,

      That so the life, dumb in the wondrous page

      Recording woman's glory, might come forth

      And be the living fact to longing eyes—

      Thou, thou essential womanhood to me;

      Afar as angels or the sainted dead,

      Yet near as loveliness can haunt a man,

      And taking any shape for every need.

      "Years, many years, have passed since the first time,

      Which was the last, I saw thee. What have they

      Made or unmade in thee? I ask myself.

      O lovely in my memory! art thou

      As lovely in thyself? Thy features then

      Said what God made thee; art thou such indeed?

      Forgive my boldness, lady; I am dead;

      And dead men may cry loud, they make no noise.

      "I have a prayer to make thee—hear the dead.

      Lady, for God's sake be as beautiful

      As that white form that dwelleth in my heart;

      Yea, better still, as that ideal Pure

      That waketh in thee, when thou prayest God,

      Or helpest thy poor neighbour. For myself

      I pray. For if I die and find that she,

      My woman-glory, lives in common air,

      Is not so very radiant after all,

      My sad face will afflict the calm-eyed ghosts,

      Not used to see such rooted sadness there,

      At least in fields where I may hope to walk

      And find good company. Upon my knees

      I could implore thee—justify my faith

      In womanhood's white-handed nobleness,

      And thee, its revelation unto me.

      "But I bethink me, lady. If thou turn

      Thy thoughts upon thyself, for the great sake

      Of purity and conscious whiteness' self,

      Thou wilt but half succeed. The other half

      Is to forget the first, and all thyself,

      Quenching thy moonlight in the blaze of day;

      Turning thy being full unto thy God;

      Where shouldst thou quite forget the name of Truth,

      Yet thou wouldst be a pure, twice holy child,

      (Twice born of God, once of thy own pure will

      Arising at the calling Father's voice,)

      Doing the right with sweet unconsciousness;

      Having God in thee, a completer soul,

      Be sure, than thou alone; thou not the less

      Complete in choice, and individual life,

      Since that which sayeth I, doth call him Sire.

      "Lady, I die—the Father holds me up.

      It is not much to thee that I should die;

      (How should it be? for thou hast never looked

      Deep in my eyes, as I once looked in thine)

      But it is much that He doth hold me up.

      "I thank thee, lady, for a gentle look

      Thou lettest fall upon me long ago.

      The same sweet look be possible to thee

      For evermore;—I bless thee with thine own,

      And say farewell, and go into my grave—

      Nay, nay, into the blue heaven of my hopes."

      Then came his name in full, and then the name

      Of the green churchyard where he hoped to lie.

      And then he laid him back, weary, and said:

      "O