George MacDonald

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

George MacDonald Poems

241. A Prayer In Sickness 4/8/2010
242. A Mammon-Marriage 4/8/2010
243. A Fear 4/8/2010
244. Christmas, 1873 4/8/2010
245. Cottage-Songs 4/8/2010
246. Shall The Dead Praise Thee? 4/9/2010
247. Sharing 4/9/2010
248. Shew Us The Father 4/9/2010
249. Russell Gurney 4/9/2010
250. Sabbath Bells 4/9/2010
251. Said And Did 4/9/2010
252. Saint Peter 4/9/2010
253. Second Sight 4/9/2010
254. Quiet Dead! 4/9/2010
255. Song Of A Poor Pilgrim 4/9/2010
256. Sleep 4/9/2010
257. Songs Of The Autumn Days 4/9/2010
258. Songs Of The Autumn Nights 4/9/2010
259. Marriage Songs 4/9/2010
260. How Shall He Sing Who Hath No Song? 4/9/2010
261. My Heart Thy Lark 4/9/2010
262. Mirls 4/9/2010
263. Words In The Night 4/9/2010
264. Song Of The Waiting Dead 4/9/2010
265. Smoke 4/9/2010
266. From North Wales: To The Mother 4/9/2010
267. A Father To A Mother 4/8/2010
268. A Song In The Night: I Would I Were An Angel Strong, 4/8/2010
269. A Sang 'O Zion 4/8/2010
270. A Song-Sermon 4/8/2010
271. Autumn Song 4/8/2010
272. I See Thee Not 4/9/2010
273. From Novalis 4/9/2010
274. Greitna, Father 4/9/2010
275. Galileo 4/9/2010
276. Antiphon 4/8/2010
277. If I Were A Monk, And If Thou Wert A Nun 4/9/2010
278. I Ken Something 4/9/2010
279. George Rolleston 4/9/2010
280. God In Growth 4/9/2010
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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