A Mammon-Marriage.

The croak of a raven hoar!
    A dog's howl, kennel-tied!
Loud shuts the carriage-door:
    The two are away on their ghastly ride
To Death's salt shore!

Where are the love and the grace?
    The bridegroom is thirsty and cold!
The bride's skull sharpens her face!
    But the coachman is driving, jubilant, bold,
The devil's pace.

The horses shivered and shook
    Waiting gaunt and haggard
With sorry and evil look;
    But swift as a drunken wind they staggered
'Longst Lethe brook.

Long since, they ran no more;
    Heavily pulling they died
On the sand of the hopeless shore
    Where never swelled or sank a tide,
And the salt burns sore.

Flat their skeletons lie,
    White shadows on shining sand;
The crusted reins go high
    To the crumbling coachman's bony hand
On his knees awry.

Side by side, jarring no more,
    Day and night side by side,
Each by a doorless door,
    Motionless sit the bridegroom and bride
On the Dead-Sea-shore.

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

Death

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Come To Me

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Galileo

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Goal

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Dead Hand

The witch lady walked along the strand,
    Heard a roaring of the sea,
On the edge of a pool saw a dead man's hand,
    Good thing for a witch lady!

Lightly she stepped across the rocks,
    Came where the dead man lay:
Now pretty maid with your merry mocks,
    Now I shall have my way!

On a finger shone a sapphire blue
    In the heart of six rubies red:
Come back to me, my promise true,
    Come back, my ring, she said.

She took the dead hand in the live,
    And at the ring drew she;
The dead hand closed its fingers five,
    And it held the witch lady.

She swore the storm was not her deed,
    Dark spells she backward spoke;
If the dead man heard he took no heed,
    But held like a cloven oak.

Deathly col...

George MacDonald

A Dead House.

When the clock hath ceased to tick
    Soul-like in the gloomy hall;
When the latch no more doth click
    Tongue-like in the red peach-wall;
When no more come sounds of play,
    Mice nor children romping roam,
Then looks down the eye of day
    On a dead house, not a home!

But when, like an old sun's ghost,
    Haunts her vault the spectral moon;
When earth's margins all are lost,
    Melting shapes nigh merged in swoon,
Then a sound--hark! there again!--
    No, 'tis not a nibbling mouse!
'Tis a ghost, unseen of men,
    Walking through the bare-floored house!

And with lightning on the stair
    To that silent upper room,
With the thunder-shaken air
    Sudden gleaming into gloom,
With a frost-wind whistling round,
    F...

George MacDonald

Songs Of The Autumn Days

    I.

    We bore him through the golden land,
    One early harvest morn;
    The corn stood ripe on either hand--
    He knew all about the corn.

    How shall the harvest gathered be
    Without him standing by?
    Without him walking on the lea,
    The sky is scarce a sky.

    The year's glad work is almost done;
    The land is rich in fruit;
    Yellow it floats in air and sun--
    Earth holds it by the root.

    Why should earth hold it for a day
    When harvest-time is come?
    Death is triumphant o'er decay,
    And leads the ripened home.


    II.

    And though the sun be not so warm,
    His shining is not lost;
    Both corn and hope, of heart and farm,
    Lie hid from coming...

George MacDonald

Sleep

Oh! is it Death that comes
To have a foretaste of the whole?
    To-night the planets and the stars
    Will glimmer through my window-bars
But will not shine upon my soul!

For I shall lie as dead
Though yet I am above the ground;
    All passionless, with scarce a breath,
    With hands of rest and eyes of death,
I shall be carried swiftly round.

Or if my life should break
The idle night with doubtful gleams,
    Through mossy arches will I go,
    Through arches ruinous and low,
And chase the true and false in dreams.

Why should I fall asleep?
When I am still upon my bed
    The moon will shine, the winds will rise
    And all around and through the skies
The light clouds travel o'er my head!

O busy, busy things,

George MacDonald

At My Window After Sunset

    Heaven and the sea attend the dying day,
    And in their sadness overflow and blend--
    Faint gold, and windy blue, and green and gray:
    Far out amid them my pale soul I send.

    For, as they mingle, so mix life and death;
    An hour draws near when my day too will die;
    Already I forecast unheaving breath,
    Eviction on the moorland of yon sky.

    Coldly and sadly lone, unhoused, alone,
    Twixt wind-broke wave and heaven's uncaring space!
    At board and hearth from this time forth unknown!
    Refuge no more in wife or daughter's face!

    Cold, cold and sad, lone as that desert sea!
    Sad, lonely, as that hopeless, patient sky!
    Forward I cannot go, nor backward flee!
    I am not dead; I live, and cannot die!

George MacDonald

The Haunted House

Suggested by a drawing of Thomas Moran, the American painter.

This must be the very night!
The moon knows it!--and the trees!
They stand straight upright,
Each a sentinel drawn up,
As if they dared not know
Which way the wind might blow!
The very pool, with dead gray eye,
Dully expectant, feels it nigh,
And begins to curdle and freeze!
And the dark night,
With its fringe of light,
Holds the secret in its cup!

II. What can it be, to make
The poplars cease to shiver and shake,
And up in the dismal air
Stand straight and stiff as the human hair
When the human soul is dizzy with dread--
All but those two that strain
Aside in a frenzy of speechless pain,
Though never a wind sends out a breath
To tunnel the foggy rheum of ...

George MacDonald