Poetry Friday V

Since I have done the unthinkable and blogged about singleness, I thought I would press on and post two poems, by two of my favourite writers, both of whom had a deep and vital faith in God, that speak of a known but unrequited love, its humiliation and hurt, and what is to be done with it. The second is written with the characteristic violent passion of a Bronte (though if you read this article, and others like it, which I found when I was looking for a suitable picture, "lovesickness" should be taken a lot more seriously as a diagnosable illness, which can lead people all the way to suicide) but interestingly portrays how the objects of love can become idols. I'll let the poems speak for themselves, but I particularly like the line "He gave our hearts to love: He will not Love despise". God will never scorn us for having loved (though we'd best guard against trust-less obsessions):

Twice

I took my heart in my hand

(O my love, O my love),

I said: Let me fall or stand,

Let me live or die,

But this once hear me speak-

(O my love, O my love)-

Yet a woman's words are weak;

You should speak, not I.

You took my heart in your hand

With a friendly smile,

With a critical eye you scanned,

Then set it down,

And said: It is still unripe,

Better wait awhile;

Wait while the skylarks pipe,

Till the corn grows brown.

As you set it down it broke-

Broke, but I did not wince;

I smiled at the speech you spoke,

At your judgement that I heard:

But I have not often smiled

Since then, nor questioned since,

Nor cared for corn-flowers wild,

Nor sung with the singing bird.

I take my heart in my hand,

O my God, O my God,

My broken heart in my hand:

Thou hast seen, judge Thou.

My hope was written on sand,

O my God, O my God;

Now let Thy judgement stand-

Yea, judge me now.

This contemned of a man,

This marred one heedless day,

This heart take Thou to scan

Both within and without:

Refine with fire its gold,

Purge Thou its dross away-

Yea hold it in Thy hold,

Whence none can pluck it out.

I take my heart in my hand-

I shall not die, but live-

Before Thy face I stand;

I, for Thou callest such

All that I have I bring,

All that I am I give,

Smile Thou and I shall sing,

But shall not question much.

Christina Rossetti

He saw my heart's woe, discovered my soul's anguish,

How in fever, in thirst, in atrophy it pined;

Knew he could heal, yet looked and let it languish,

To it's moans spirit-deaf, to its pangs spirit-blind.

But once a year he heard a whisper low and dreary

Appealing for aid, entreating some reply;

Only when sick, soul-worn, and torture weary,

Breathed I that prayer, heaved I that sigh.

He was mute as is the grave, he stood stirless as a tower;

At last I looked up, and saw I prayed to stone:

I asked help of that which to help had no power,

I sought love where love was utterly unknown.

Idolater I kneeled to an idol cut in rock!

I might have slashed my flesh and drawn my heart's best blood:

The Granite God had felt no tenderness, no shock;

My Baal had not seen nor heard nor understood.

In dark remorse I rose; I rose in darker shame;

Self-condemned I withdrew to an exile from my kind;

A solitude I sought where mortal never came,

Hoping in its wilds forgetfulness to find.

Now, Heaven, heal the wound which I still deeply feel;

The glorious hosts look not in scorn on our poor race;

Thy King eternal doth no iron judgment deal

On suffering worms who seek forgiveness, comfort, grace.

He gave our hearts to love: He will not Love despise,

E'en if the gift be lost, as mine was long ago;

He will forgive the fault, will bid the offender rise,

Wash out with dews of bliss the fiery brand of woe;

And give a sheltered place beneath the unsullied throne,

Whence the soul redeemed may mark Time's fleeting course round earth;

And know its trials overpast, its sufferings gone,

And feel the peril past of Death's immortal birth.

Charlotte Bronte