George MacDonald Poems

Greitna, father, that I'm gauin,
For fu' well ye ken the gaet;
I' the winter, corn ye're sawin,
I' the hairst again ye hae't.
...

Autumn clouds are flying, flying
O'er the waste of blue;
Summer flowers are dying, dying,
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Yes, Master, when thou comest thou shalt find
A little faith on earth, if I am here!
Thou know'st how oft I turn to thee my mind.
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Lord, I have laid my heart upon thy altar
But cannot get the wood to burn;
It hardly flares ere it begins to falter
And to the dark return.
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With us there is no gray fearing,
With us no aching for lack!
For the morn it is always nearing,
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I would I were an angel strong,
An angel of the sun, hasting along!

I would I were just come awake,
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Ane by ane they gang awa;
The getherer gethers grit and sma':
Ane by ane maks ane and a'!
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Would that thou hid me in the grave
And kept me with death's gaoler-care;
Until thy wrath away should wear
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When God's own child came down to earth,
High heaven was very glad;
The angels sang for holy mirth;
Not God himself was sad!
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When the summer gave us a longer day,
And the leaves were thickest, I went away:
Like an isle, through dark clouds, of the infinite blue,
...