George MacDonald

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

George MacDonald Poems

201. Power 4/9/2010
202. In A Churchyard 4/9/2010
203. In February 4/9/2010
204. King Cole 4/9/2010
205. In The Night 4/9/2010
206. Life-Weary 4/9/2010
207. Lost But Safe 4/9/2010
208. Love's Ordeal 4/9/2010
209. Lycabas 4/9/2010
210. Mary 4/9/2010
211. Song-Prayer: After King David 4/9/2010
212. Rondel 4/9/2010
213. Sir Lark And King Sun 4/9/2010
214. Somnium Mystici 4/9/2010
215. Provision 4/9/2010
216. Rejoice 4/9/2010
217. Rest 4/9/2010
218. Reverence Waking Hope 4/9/2010
219. Shadows 4/9/2010
220. Blind Bartimeus 4/8/2010
221. Born Of Water 4/8/2010
222. Brother Artist 4/8/2010
223. Christmas Meditation 4/8/2010
224. Christmas Prayer 4/8/2010
225. Hame 4/9/2010
226. Granny Canty 4/9/2010
227. He Needed Not 4/9/2010
228. Godly Ballants 4/9/2010
229. A Make-Believe 4/8/2010
230. A Meditation Of St. Eligius 4/8/2010
231. A Noonday Melody 4/8/2010
232. A Story Of The Sea-Shore 4/8/2010
233. After An Old Legend 4/8/2010
234. An Old Sermon With A New Text 4/8/2010
235. An Old Story 4/8/2010
236. After The Fashion Of An Old Emblem 4/8/2010
237. After Thomas Kempis 4/8/2010
238. A Vision Of St. Eligius 4/8/2010
239. A Song For Christmas 4/8/2010
240. A Prayer For The Past: Now Far From My Old Northern Land, 4/8/2010

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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

That Holy Thing

THEY all were looking for a king
   To slay their foes and lift them high:
Thou cam'st, a little baby thing
   That made a woman cry.

O Son of Man, to right my lot
   Naught but Thy presence can avail;
Yet on the road Thy wheels are not,
   Nor on the sea Thy sail!

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