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The Poetical Works of George MacDonald (Parables)

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XVIII.

"What matter," said I, "whether clank of chain

Or over-bliss wakes up to bitterness!" Stung with its loss, I called the vision vain.

Yet feeling life grown larger, suffering less,

Sleep's ashes from my eyelids I did brush. The room was veiled, that morning should not press

Upon the slumber which had stayed the rush

Of ebbing life; I looked into the gloom: Upon her brow the dawn's first grayest flush,

And on her cheek pale hope's reviving bloom,

Sat, patient watcher, darkling and alone, She who had lifted me from many a tomb!

One then was left me of Love's radiant cone!

Its light on her dear face, though faint and wan, Was shining yet--a dawn upon it thrown

From the far coming of the Son of Man!

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