George MacDonald

(10 December 1824 – 18 September 1905 / Huntly, Aberdeenshire, Scotland)

George MacDonald Poems

401. Angels 4/8/2010
402. Autumn's Gold 4/8/2010
403. A Book Of Strife In The Form Of The Diary Of An Old Soul - December 4/8/2010
404. A Book Of Dreams: Part I 4/8/2010
405. False Prophets 4/8/2010
406. Contrition 4/8/2010
407. December 27, 1879 4/8/2010
408. Zacchaeus 4/9/2010
409. Dejection 4/8/2010
410. A Dead House 4/8/2010
411. A Book Of Strife In The Form Of The Diary Of An Old Soul - March 4/8/2010
412. Little Boy Blue 4/9/2010
413. Eine Kleine Predigt 4/8/2010
414. A Hidden Life 4/8/2010
415. A Christmas Carol For 1862 4/8/2010
416. Blessed Are The Meek, For They Shall Inherit The Earth 4/8/2010
417. A Dream Of Waking 4/8/2010
418. Evening Hymn 4/8/2010
419. A Cry 4/8/2010
420. Faith 4/8/2010
421. Obedience 4/9/2010
422. A Book Of Strife In The Form Of The Diary Of An Old Soul - April 4/8/2010
423. A Christmas Carol 4/8/2010
424. A Better Thing 4/8/2010
425. A Memorial Of Africa 4/8/2010
426. For Where Your Treasure Is, There Will Your Heart Be Also 4/9/2010
427. Love Is Strength 4/9/2010
428. A Baby-Sermon 4/8/2010
429. A Birth-Day Wish 4/8/2010
430. A Dream Song 4/8/2010
431. A Broken Prayer 4/8/2010
432. Baby 4/8/2010
433. Little Bo-Peep 4/9/2010

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Best Poem of George MacDonald

Little Bo-Peep

Little Bo-Peep, she has lost her sheep,
And will not know where to find them;
They are over the height and out of sight,
Trailing their tails behind them!

Little Bo-Peep woke out of her sleep,
Jump'd up and set out to find them:
'The silly things! they've got no wings,
And they've left their trails behind them!

'They've taken their tails, but they've left their trails,
And so I shall follow and find them!'
For wherever a tail had dragged a trail
The grass lay bent behind them.

She washed in the brook, and caught up her crook.
And after her ...

Read the full of Little Bo-Peep

A Better Thing

I took it for a bird of prey that soared
High over ocean, battled mount, and plain;
'Twas but a bird-moth, which with limp horns gored
The invisibly obstructing window-pane!

Better than eagle, with far-towering nerve
But downward bent, greedy, marauding eye,
Guest of the flowers, thou art: unhurt they serve
Thee, little angel of a lower sky!

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