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George MacDonald (Джордж Макдональд) * * * Were I a skilful painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and fear, And who would blame me then?- Fear of the tide of darkness That floweth fast behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind. Were I a skilful painter, What should I paint for thee?- A tiny spring-bud peeping out From a withered wintry tree; The warm blue sky of summer O'er jagged ice and snow, And water hurrying gladsome out From a cavern down below; The dim light of a beacon Upon a stormy sea, Where a lonely ship to windward beats For life and liberty; A watery sun-ray gleaming Athwart a sullen cloud And falling on some grassy flower The rain had earthward bowed; Morn peeping o'er a mountain, In ambush for the dark, And a traveller in the vale below Rejoicing like a lark; A taper nearly vanished Amid the dawning gray, And a maiden lifting up her head, And lo, the coming day! I am no skilful painter; Let who will blame me then That I would teach thee hope and fear With my plain-talking pen!- Fear of the tide of darkness That floweth fast behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind. George MacDonald's other poems:
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