blueSpirit - 안개숲 霧林 Opaque Mist 1992

 

안개숲 霧林 Opaque Mist 1992

두방지 豆方紙 서화판에 수묵담채 Ink and color on Layered Korean paper

24 x 27cm _ 9 1/2 x 10 3/4in

 

 

Guilt And Sorrow

 

William Wordsworth

 

LXI

      A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood;
      Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone.
      She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood
      As the wain fronted her,--wherein lay one,
      A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone.
      The carman wet her lips as well behoved;
      Bed under her lean body there was none,
      Though even to die near one she most had loved
      She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved.
                        

LXII

      The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain
      And homefelt force of sympathy sincere,
      Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain
      The jolting road and morning air severe.
      The wain pursued its way; and following near
      In pure compassion she her steps retraced
      Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here,"
      She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste
      The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past.
                                

LXIII

      While to the door with eager speed they ran,
      From her bare straw the Woman half upraised
      Her bony visage--gaunt and deadly wan;
      No pity asking, on the group she gazed
      With a dim eye, distracted and amazed;
      Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan.
      Fervently cried the housewife--"God be praised,
      I have a house that I can call my own;
      Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!"
                                 

LXIV

      So in they bear her to the chimney seat,
      And busily, though yet with fear, untie
      Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet
      And chafe her temples, careful hands apply.
      Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh
      She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear;
      Then said--"I thank you all; if I must die,
      The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear;
      Till now I did not think my end had been so near.
                                 

LXV

      "Barred every comfort labour could procure,
      Suffering what no endurance could assuage,
      I was compelled to seek my father's door,
      Though loth to be a burthen on his age.
      But sickness stopped me in an early stage
      Of my sad journey; and within the wain
      They placed me--there to end life's pilgrimage,
      Unless beneath your roof I may remain;
      For I shall never see my father's door again.
                                 

LXVI

      "My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome;
      But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek
      May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb:
      Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak
      Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.--
      Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea
      Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek,
      My husband served in sad captivity
      on shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free.
                                 

LXVII

      "A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares,
      Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed;
      Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers
      Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread;
      Till one was found by stroke of violence dead,
      Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie;
      A dire suspicion drove us from our shed;
      In vain to find a friendly face we try,
      Nor could we live together those poor boys and I;
                                

LXVIII

      "For evil tongues made oath how on that day
      My husband lurked about the neighbourhood;
      Now he had fled, and whither none could say,
      And 'he' had done the deed in the dark wood--
      Near his own home!--but he was mild and good;
      Never on earth was gentler creature seen;
      He'd not have robbed the raven of its food.
      My husband's lovingkindness stood between
      Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen."
                                 

LXIX

      Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath
      The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness
      His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death,
      He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless
      With her last words, unable to suppress
      His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive;
      And, weeping loud in this extreme distress,
      He cried--"Do pity me! That thou shouldst live
      I neither ask nor wish--forgive me, but forgive!"
                                 

LXX

      To tell the change that Voice within her wrought
      Nature by sign or sound made no essay;
      A sudden joy surprised expiring thought,
      And every mortal pang dissolved away.
      Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay;
      Yet still while over her the husband bent,
      A look was in her face which seemed to say,
      "Be blest; by sight of thee from heaven was sent
      Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content."
 

 

http://www.bartleby.com/145/ww118.html

 

 

 

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