George MacDonald Poems

With joyful pride her heart is high:
Her humble house doth hold
The man her nation's prophecy
Long ages hath foretold!
...

Dark stranger on the teeming map of fate
Fabric, that seem’st a thing alike apart
From aught that nature or that art create;
...

Father, in the dark I lay,
Thirsting for the light,
Helpless, but for hope alway
In thy father-might.
...

Whan Andrew frae Strathbogie gaed
The lift was lowerin dreary,
The sun he wadna raise his heid,
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The stars are spinning their threads,
And the clouds are the dust that flies,
And the suns are weaving them up
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I dinna ken what's come ower me!
There's a how whaur ance was a hert!
I never luik oot afore me,
...

'If I sit in the dust
For lauding good wine,
Ha, ha! it is just:
So sits the vine!'
...

All sights and sounds of day and year,
All groups and forms, each leaf and gem,
Are thine, O God, nor will I fear
To talk to thee of them
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I would I were a child,
That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father!
And follow thee with running feet, or rather
...

Of the poor bird that cannot fly
Kindly you think and mournfully;
For prisoners and for exiles all
You let the tears of pity fall;
...