Book format: An electronic version of a printed book that can be read on a computer or handheld device designed specifically for this purpose.
Publisher: General Books LLC (3 Feb. 2012)
By: Philip Bourke Marston (Author)
This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1892. Excerpt: ... THE BITTEREST. Love took me by the hand, and said: 'Arise, To know this last and bitterest thing, O son!' I bowed my face, and said: 'Thy will be done:' And then he brought me where, beneath warm skies, A gracious land unfolded to mine eyes. 'A goodly land it is,' he said, 'but none May ever dwell therein.' 'Then I will shun The sight of it,' I cried: but, with deep sighs Love answered me, and said: 'Nay, son, not so: But thou must gaze forever on this land, For thus thy lady wills that it shall be, Seeing the far-off peace thou canst not see.' I said, 'I do not seek to understand: Only, Love, give me grace her will to know.' THE UTTERED SOUL. If God to me had given the heart and brain Of some musician skilled above the rest, Her soul in music had been manifest. Perchance some painter, frenzied to sweet pain By her deep loveliness, through stress and strain Of great desire to be through life possessed Of all that beauty, had been crowned and blessed, And, spent yet living, seen the light strike plain Upon her deathless loveliness, and died! But Music could alone her spirit render: Long waves of passionate melody that roll Wave after wave all tending to one goal, Pure notes, intense, beyond all language tender, Her soul in music, Music deified! LOVE'S QUEST. 169 LOVE'S QUEST. Love walks with weary feet the upward way, Love without joy and led by suffering. Love's unkissed lips have now no song to sing: Love's eyes are blind and cannot see the day: Love walks in utter darkness, and I say: 'O Love, 'tis summer,' or 'Behold the spring,' Or, ' Love, 't is autumn, leaves are withering,' And, ' Now it is the winter bleak and gray,' And still Love heedeth not. 'O Love,' I cry, 'Wilt thou not rest?--the path is over steep:' Love answers not, but passeth all things...
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