blueSpirit - 비감 悲感 Pathos 1992

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

비감 悲感 Pathos 1992

화선지에 수묵담채 Ink and color on Korean paper

90 x 160cm _ 35 1/2 x 53 1/4in

 

 

 

 

Guilt And Sorrow

 

William Wordsworth

 

 

LXXI

      'She' slept in peace,--his pulses throbbed and stopped,
      Breathless he gazed upon her face,--then took
      Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped,
      When on his own he cast a rueful look.
      His ears were never silent; sleep forsook
      His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead;
      All night from time to time under him shook
      The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed;
      And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!"

                                 

LXXII

      The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot,
      And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care
      Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought,
      Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer
      He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair.
      The corse interred, not one hour heremained
      Beneath their roof, but to the open air
      A burthen, now with fortitude sustained,
      He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.

                                

LXXIII

      Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared
      For act and suffering, to the city straight
      He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared:
      "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait,
      Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate."
      Not ineffectual was that piteous claim:
      "O welcome sentence which will end though late,"
      He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came
      Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!"

                                 

LXXIV

      His fate was pitied. Him in iron case
      (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought)
      They hung not:--no one on 'his' form or face
      Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought;
      No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought
      By lawless curiosity or chance,
      When into storm the evening sky is wrought,
      Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance,
      And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.
                                                           1793-94.

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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