The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonald

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       And wakeful-weary on his bed he lay,

       Like frozen lake that has no heaven within;

       Then, then the sleeping horror woke and stirred,

       And with the tooth of unsure thought began

       To gnaw the roots of life:—What if there were

       No truth in beauty! What if loveliness

       Were but the invention of a happier mood!

       "For, if my mind can dim or slay the Fair,

       Why should it not enhance or make the Fair?"

       "Nay," Psyche answered; "for a tired man

       May drop his eyelids on the visible world,

       To whom no dreams, when fancy flieth free,

       Will bring the sunny excellence of day.

       'Tis easy to destroy; God only makes.

       Could my invention sweep the lucid waves

       With purple shadows—next create the joy

       With which my life beholds them? Wherefore should

       One meet the other without thought of mine,

       If God did not mean beauty in them and me,

       But dropped them, helpless shadows, from his sun?

       There were no God, his image not being mine,

       And I should seek in vain for any bliss!

       Oh, lack and doubt and fear can only come

       Because of plenty, confidence, and love!

       Those are the shadow-forms about the feet

       Of these—because they are not crystal-clear

       To the all-searching sun in which they live:

       Dread of its loss is Beauty's certain seal!"

       Thus reasoned mourning Psyche. Suddenly

       The sun would rise, and vanish Psyche's lamp,

       Absorbed in light, not swallowed in the dark.

      It was a wintry time with sunny days,

       With visitings of April airs and scents,

       That came with sudden presence, unforetold,

       As brushed from off the outer spheres of spring

       In the great world where all is old and new.

       Strange longings he had never known till now,

       Awoke within him, flowers of rooted hope.

       For a whole silent hour he would sit and gaze

       Upon the distant hills, whose dazzling snow

       Starred the dim blue, or down their dark ravines

       Crept vaporous; until the fancy rose

       That on the other side those rampart walls,

       A mighty woman sat, with waiting face,

       Calm as that life whose rapt intensity

       Borders on death, silent, waiting for him,

       To make him grand for ever with a kiss,

       And send him silent through the toning worlds.

      The father saw him waning. The proud sire

       Beheld his pride go drooping in the cold,

       Like snowdrop on its grave; and sighed deep thanks

       That he was old. But evermore the son

       Looked up and smiled as he had heard strange news

       Across the waste, of tree-buds and primroses.

       Then all at once the other mood would come,

       And, like a troubled child, he would seek his father

       For father-comfort, which fathers all can give:

       Sure there is one great Father in the world,

       Since every word of good from fathers' lips

       Falleth with such authority, although

       They are but men as we! This trembling son,

       Who saw the unknown death draw hourly nigher,

       Sought solace in his father's tenderness,

       And made him strong to die.

      One shining day,

       Shining with sun and snow, he came and said,

       "What think you, father—is death very sore?"

       "My boy," the father answered, "we will try

       To make it easy with the present God.

       But, as I judge, though more by hope than sight,

       It seems much harder to the lookers on

       Than to the man who dies. Each panting breath

       We call a gasp, may be in him the cry

       Of infant eagerness; or, at worst, the sob

       With which the unclothed spirit, step by step.

       Wades forth into the cool eternal sea.

       I think, my boy, death has two sides to it—

       One sunny, and one dark—as this round earth

       Is every day half sunny and half dark.

       We on the dark side call the mystery death; They on the other, looking down in light, Wait the glad birth, with other tears than ours." "Be near me, father, when I die," he said. "I will, my boy, until a better Father Draws your hand out of mine. Be near in turn, When my time comes—you in the light beyond, And knowing well the country—I in the dark."

      The days went by, until the tender green

       Shone through the snow in patches. Then the hope

       Of life, reviving faintly, stirred his heart;

       For the spring drew him—warm, soft, budding spring,

       With promises, and he went forth to meet her.

      But he who once had strode a king on the fields,

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