A Hidden Life and Other Poems. George MacDonald

                              And all went well.

      The grain was fully ripe. The harvest carts

      Went forth broad-platformed for the towering load,

      With frequent passage 'twixt homeyard and field.

      And half the oats already hid their tops,

      Of countless spray-hung grains—their tops, by winds

      Swayed oft, and ringing, rustling contact sweet;

      Made heavy oft by slow-combining dews,

      Or beaten earthward by the pelting rains;

      Rising again in breezes to the sun,

      And bearing all things till the perfect time—

      Had hid, I say, this growth of sun and air

      Within the darkness of the towering stack;

      When in the north low billowy clouds appeared,

      Blue-based, white-topped, at close of afternoon;

      And in the west, dark masses, plashed with blue,

      With outline vague of misty steep and dell,

      Clomb o'er the hill-tops; there was thunder there.

      The air was sultry. But the upper sky

      Was clear and radiant.

                            Downward went the sun;

      Down low, behind the low and sullen clouds

      That walled the west; and down below the hills

      That lay beneath them hid. Uprose the moon,

      And looked for silence in her moony fields,

      But there she found it not. The staggering cart,

      Like an o'erladen beast, crawled homeward still,

      Returning light and low. The laugh broke yet,

      That lightning of the soul, from cloudless skies,

      Though not so frequent, now that labour passed

      Its natural hour. Yet on the labour went,

      Straining to beat the welkin-climbing toil

      Of the huge rain-clouds, heavy with their floods.

      Sleep, like enchantress old, soon sided with

      The crawling clouds, and flung benumbing spells

      On man and horse. The youth that guided home

      The ponderous load of sheaves, higher than wont,

      Daring the slumberous lightning, with a start

      Awoke, by falling full against the wheel,

      That circled slow after the sleepy horse.

      Yet none would yield to soft-suggesting sleep,

      Or leave the last few shocks; for the wild rain

      Would catch thereby the skirts of Harvest-home,

      And hold her lingering half-way in the storm.

      The scholar laboured with his men all night.

      Not that he favoured quite this headlong race

      With Nature. He would rather say: "The night

      Is sent for sleep, we ought to sleep in it,

      And leave the clouds to God. Not every storm

      That climbeth heavenward, overwhelms the earth.

      And if God wills, 'tis better as he wills;

      What he takes from us never can be lost."

      But the old farmer ordered; and the son

      Went manful to the work, and held his peace.

      The last cart homeward went, oppressed with sheaves,

      Just as a moist dawn blotted pale the east,

      And the first drops fell, overfed with mist,

      O'ergrown and helpless. Darker grew the morn.

      Upstraining racks of clouds, tumultuous borne

      Upon the turmoil of opposing winds,

      Met in the zenith. And the silence ceased:

      The lightning brake, and flooded all the earth,

      And its great roar of billows followed it.

      The deeper darkness drank the light again,

      And lay unslaked. But ere the darkness came,

      In the full revelation of the flash,

      He saw, along the road, borne on a horse

      Powerful and gentle, the sweet lady go,

      Whom years agone he saw for evermore.

      "Ah me!" he said; "my dreams are come for me,

      Now they shall have their time." And home he went,

      And slept and moaned, and woke, and raved, and wept.

      Through all the net-drawn labyrinth of his brain

      The fever raged, like pent internal fire.

      His father soon was by him; and the hand

      Of his one sister soothed him. Days went by.

      As in a summer evening, after rain,

      He woke to sweet quiescent consciousness;

      Enfeebled much, but with a new-born life.

      As slow the weeks passed, he recovered strength;

      And ere the winter came, seemed strong once more.

      But the brown hue of health had not returned

      On his thin face; although a keener fire

      Burned in his larger eyes; and in his cheek

      The mounting blood glowed radiant (summoning force,

      Sometimes, unbidden) with a sunset red.

      Before its time, a biting frost set in;

      And gnawed with fangs of cold his shrinking life;

      And the disease so common to the north

      Was born of outer cold and inner heat.

      One morn his sister, entering, saw he slept;

      But in his hand he held a handkerchief

      Spotted with crimson. White with terror, she

      Stood motionless and staring. Startled next

      By her own pallor, when she raised her eyes,

      Seen in the glass, she moved at last. He woke;

      And seeing her dismay, said with a smile,

      "Blood-red was evermore my favourite hue,

      And see, I have it in me; that is all."

      She shuddered; and he tried to jest no more;

      And from that hour looked Death full in the face.

      When first he saw the red blood outward leap,

      As if it sought again the fountain heart,

      Whence