I just read George MacDonald's Phantastes, the theme of which happens to be particularly relevant to wonderings and conversations which take up a good bit of my life at the moment. This theme is beautifully stated in a poem within the book.
Better to sit at the waters' birth,
Than a sea of waves to win;
To live in the love that floweth forth,
Than the love that cometh in.
Be thy heart a well of love, my child,
Flowing, and free, and sure;
For a cistern of love, though undefiled,
Keeps not the spirit pure.
I have been writing sonnets as of late, and feel I am improving. The above poem meant so much to me that I attempted to write one which quotes it. Hope you enjoy.
"Be thou a well of love," I read in old,
Most dear of stories. But, "Be thou thine own
Full fountain, self secure," I now am told.
For, "from a well is love drawn out: the stone
Which holds thee up shall age and crack; the deep
Of water dry and lonesome be, for wells
Which give will give and give till dry. She weeps
For ev'ry parchéd tongue whose thirst she quells,
Who, whole made through her love, move on to love
The greater. Be then, dear heart, fountain for
Thyself. Be thou thine warmth own, thine own love."
And yet, if into empty hearts we pour,
Ever give love, though love we never get:
Alone be we, but lone not with regret.
