A Father To A Mother

    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!

    Shall we, when ours goes homeward, fret?
    Come, Hope, and wait on Sorrow!
    The little one will not forget;
    It's only till to-morrow!

George MacDonald

George MacDonald (1824–1905) was a Scottish author, poet, and Christian minister best known for his fairy tales and fantasy novels. He was a pioneer in the fantasy genre, influencing notable writers such as C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. His major works include "Phantastes" and "Lilith," as well as numerous poems and other literary works. MacDonald's writings are characterized by their imaginative qualities and deep spiritual insight.

George MacDonald

Summer

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Translations. - Lieder. (From Heine.)

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Sleepless Jesus

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

I Would I Were A Child

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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The Children's Heaven.

    The infant lies in blessed ease
        Upon his mother's breast;
    No storm, no dark, the baby sees
        Invade his heaven of rest.
    He nothing knows of change or death--
        Her face his holy skies;
    The air he breathes, his mother's breath;
        His stars, his mother's eyes!

    Yet half the soft winds wandering there
        Are sighs that come of fears;
    The dew slow falling through that air--
        It is the dew of tears;
    And ah, my child, thy heavenly home
        Hath storms as well as dew;
    Black clouds fill sometimes all its dome,
        And quench the starry blue!

    "My smile would win no smile again,
        If baby saw the things
    That ache across his mother's brain
        The whi...

George MacDonald

Reciprocity

    Her mother, Elfie older grown,
    One evening, for adieu,
    Said, "You'll not mind being left alone,
    For God takes care of you!"

    In child-way her heart's eye did see
    The correlation's node:
    "Yes," she said, "God takes care o' me,
    An' I take care o' God."

    The child and woman were the same,
    She changed not, only grew;
    'Twixt God and her no shadow came:
    The true is always true!

    As daughter, sister, promised wife,
    Her heart with love did brim:
    Now, sure, it brims as full of life,
    Hid fourteen years in him!


1892.

George MacDonald

A Dream Of Waking

    A child was born in sin and shame,
    Wronged by his very birth,
    Without a home, without a name,
    One over in the earth.

    No wifely triumph he inspired,
    Allayed no husband's fear;
    Intruder bare, whom none desired,
    He had a welcome drear.

    Heaven's beggar, all but turned adrift
    For knocking at earth's gate,
    His mother, like an evil gift,
    Shunned him with sickly hate.

    And now the mistress on her knee
    The unloved baby bore,
    The while the servant sullenly
    Prepared to leave her door.

    Her eggs are dear to mother-dove,
    Her chickens to the hen;
    All young ones bring with them their love,
    Of sheep, or goats, or men!

    This one lone child shall no...

George MacDonald

Sympathy

    Grief held me silent in my seat;
        I neither moved nor smiled:
    Joy held her silent at my feet,
        My shining lily-child.

    She raised her face and looked in mine;
        She deemed herself denied;
    The door was shut, there was no shine;
        Poor she was left outside!

    Once, twice, three times, with infant grace
        Her lips my name did mould;
    Her face was pulling at my face--
        She was but ten months old.

    I saw; the sight rebuked my sighs;
        It made me think--Does God
    Need help from his poor children's eyes
        To ease him of his load?

    Ah, if he did, how seldom then
        The Father would be glad!
    If comfort lay in the eyes of men,
        He little...

George MacDonald

Dejection

O Father, I am in the dark,
    My soul is heavy-bowed:
I send my prayer up like a lark,
    Up through my vapoury shroud,
                To find thee,
                And remind thee
I am thy child, and thou my father,
Though round me death itself should gather.

Lay thy loved hand upon my head,
    Let thy heart beat in mine;
One thought from thee, when all seems dead,
    Will make the darkness shine
                About me
                And throughout me!
And should again the dull night gather,
I'll cry again, Thou art my father.

George MacDonald

By The Cradle.

Close her eyes: she must not peep!
Let her little puds go slack;
Slide away far into sleep:
Sis will watch till she comes back!

Mother's knitting at the door,
Waiting till the kettle sings;
When the kettle's song is o'er
She will set the bright tea-things.

Father's busy making hay
In the meadow by the brook,
Not so very far away--
Close its peeps, it needn't look!

God is round us everywhere--
Sees the scythe glitter and rip;
Watches baby gone somewhere;
Sees how mother's fingers skip!

Sleep, dear baby; sleep outright:
    Mother's sitting just behind:
Father's only out of sight;
    God is round us like the wind.

George MacDonald