Poems By the author of "The Patience of Hope" [i.e. Dora Greenwell] |
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THE QUESTION. |
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214
THE QUESTION.
“Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou
me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord; thou knowest
that I love thee.”—John xxi. 15.
Lord, didst Thou turn Thine eyes
On me, and speak upon this solemn shore
The words that wounded with a keen surprise
Thine erring, loving servant, grieved the more
That love, as doubtful of its own, should seek
To put it thrice to proof; I could but speak
With Him; I could but say, ‘Below, above
Thou knowest all,—Thou knowest that I love.”
On me, and speak upon this solemn shore
The words that wounded with a keen surprise
Thine erring, loving servant, grieved the more
That love, as doubtful of its own, should seek
To put it thrice to proof; I could but speak
With Him; I could but say, ‘Below, above
Thou knowest all,—Thou knowest that I love.”
But canst Thou say with Her,
The Bride of ancient Song, “My soul hath found
Him whom it only loveth? wilt Thou stir
And quit me now for these that stand around—
Am I more dear than these?” I answer, “Yea,
Than each, than all more dear! I could not stray
From Thee, O Shepherd, skilled with silver sound
Of voice and hand attuned, thy flock to please
And lure them o'er the mountains, knowing best
Beside what streams, beneath what spreading trees
To solace them, to give their wanderings rest;
Why should I ever leave Thee? which of these
Hath charm so sure?”
The Bride of ancient Song, “My soul hath found
Him whom it only loveth? wilt Thou stir
And quit me now for these that stand around—
Am I more dear than these?” I answer, “Yea,
Than each, than all more dear! I could not stray
From Thee, O Shepherd, skilled with silver sound
Of voice and hand attuned, thy flock to please
And lure them o'er the mountains, knowing best
Beside what streams, beneath what spreading trees
To solace them, to give their wanderings rest;
215
Hath charm so sure?”
“Yet hast Thou never feared
To gaze on these around, lest they should grow
Through fairness to thy soul too much endeared?”
“Nay, this I fear not, since I learned to know
A truer fairness, lighting on the Rose
That doth within its folded breast enclose
All fragrance, being as the soul that glows
In every other flower, I wander free
About this earthly garden; sweet to me
Its blooms and safe! for they that of Thy wine
Have tasted, will not from its strength decline
For any meaner cup! they love not Thee
Enough, who fear that any else should be
Too much beloved!”
To gaze on these around, lest they should grow
Through fairness to thy soul too much endeared?”
“Nay, this I fear not, since I learned to know
A truer fairness, lighting on the Rose
That doth within its folded breast enclose
All fragrance, being as the soul that glows
In every other flower, I wander free
About this earthly garden; sweet to me
Its blooms and safe! for they that of Thy wine
Have tasted, will not from its strength decline
For any meaner cup! they love not Thee
Enough, who fear that any else should be
Too much beloved!”
So spake I over bold,
And knew not, Lord! that round Thy Tree of Life
The serpent still doth twine with deadly fold;
I knew not then the thrice-refinèd gold
Was thrid with baser clay; that still the strife
Goes on, till Death doth part 'twixt things accurst
And things of blessing; severing best and worst
That grow together—easy still to miss
And hard to win—Thou knowest, Lord, of this,
Thou only knowest, what are we to speak?
Yet, Thou hast spoken, “Blessed are the meek,”
And “they that mourn are blessed.” I can touch
This border of Thy garment; now I know
I love Thee, Lord, I will not let Thee go;
I will not ask, “Are these beloved too much?”
Too little, Lord! because my heart is cold
In loving Thee! I make with one of old
This fervent prayer, Do Thou enlarge my coast
And o'er it rule Thyself! where Thou art most
Beloved, is room for all! the heart grows wide
That holdeth Thee! a Heaven where none doth press
Upon the other, none of more or less
Doth ask solicitous, for ever there
Is bread enough, and fulness still to spare,
And none that come depart unsatisfied.”
And knew not, Lord! that round Thy Tree of Life
The serpent still doth twine with deadly fold;
I knew not then the thrice-refinèd gold
Was thrid with baser clay; that still the strife
Goes on, till Death doth part 'twixt things accurst
And things of blessing; severing best and worst
That grow together—easy still to miss
And hard to win—Thou knowest, Lord, of this,
Thou only knowest, what are we to speak?
Yet, Thou hast spoken, “Blessed are the meek,”
And “they that mourn are blessed.” I can touch
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I love Thee, Lord, I will not let Thee go;
I will not ask, “Are these beloved too much?”
Too little, Lord! because my heart is cold
In loving Thee! I make with one of old
This fervent prayer, Do Thou enlarge my coast
And o'er it rule Thyself! where Thou art most
Beloved, is room for all! the heart grows wide
That holdeth Thee! a Heaven where none doth press
Upon the other, none of more or less
Doth ask solicitous, for ever there
Is bread enough, and fulness still to spare,
And none that come depart unsatisfied.”
| Poems | |