The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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XVI.

But

is it God?--Once more the fear Of No God loads my breath:

Amid a sunless atmosphere

I fight again with death.

Such rest may be like that which lulls

The man who fainting lies:

His

bloodless brain his spirit dulls, Draws darkness o'er his eyes.

But

even such sleep, my heart responds, May be the ancient rest

Rising released from bodily bonds,

And flowing unreprest.

The

o'ertasked will falls down aghast In individual death;

God

puts aside the severed past, Breathes-in a primal breath.

For

how should torture breed a calm? Can death to life give birth?

No labour can create the balm

That soothes the sleeping earth!

I yet will hope the very One

Whose love is life in me,

Did, when my strength was overdone,

Inspire serenity.

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