An Old Story.

They were parted at last, although
    Each was tenderly dear;
As asunder their eyes did go,
    When first alone and near.

'Tis an old story this--
    A trembling and a sigh,
A gaze in the eyes, a kiss--
    Why will it not go by?

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

A Mood

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Abu Midjan

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Oh Thou Of Little Faith!

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Drawing Water.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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Winter Song

    They were parted then at last?
    Was it duty, or force, or fate?
    Or did a worldly blast
    Blow-to the meeting-gate?

    An old, short story is this!
    A glance, a trembling, a sigh,
    A gaze in the eyes, a kiss--
    Why will it not go by!

George MacDonald

An Old Story

    In the ancient house of ages,
        See, they cannot rest!
    With a hope, which awe assuages,
        Tremble all the blest.
    For the son and heir eternal,
        To be son yet more,
    Leaves his stately chair supernal
        For the earth's low floor;

    Leaves the room so high and old,
        Leaves the all-world hearth,
    Seeks the out-air, frosty-cold,
        Of the twilight earth--
    To be throned in newer glory
        In a mother's lap,
    Gather up our broken story,
        And right every hap.


II.

    There Earth's foster-baby lies,
        Sleep-dimmed all his graces,
    'Neath four stars of parents' eyes,
        And two heavens of faces!
    See! the cow and ass, dumb-staring,...

George MacDonald

After An Old Legend.

The monk was praying in his cell,
    And he did pray full sore;
He had been praying on his knees
    For two long hours and more.

And in the midst, and suddenly,
    He felt his eyes ope wide;
And he lifted not his head, but saw
    A man's feet him beside.

And almost to his feet there reached
    A garment strangely knit;
Some woman's fingers, ages agone,
    Had trembled, in making it.

The monk's eyes went up the garment,
    Until a hand they spied;
A cut from a chisel was on it,
    And another scar beside.

Then his eyes sprang to the face
    With a single thirsty bound;
'Twas He, and he nigh had fainted;
    His eyes had the Master found.

On his ear fell the convent bell,
    That told him the poor ...

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

The Old Garden

I.

I stood in an ancient garden
With high red walls around;
Over them grey and green lichens
In shadowy arabesque wound.

The topmost climbing blossoms
On fields kine-haunted looked out;
But within were shelter and shadow,
With daintiest odours about.

There were alleys and lurking arbours,
Deep glooms into which to dive.
The lawns were as soft as fleeces,
Of daisies I counted but five.

The sun-dial was so aged
It had gathered a thoughtful grace;
'Twas the round-about of the shadow
That so had furrowed its face.

The flowers were all of the oldest
That ever in garden sprung;
Red, and blood-red, and dark purple
The rose-lamps flaming hung.

Along the borders fringed
With broad thick edges of box

George MacDonald

Longing.

Away from the city's herds!
    Away from the noisy street!
Away from the storm of words,
    Where hateful and hating meet!

Away from the vapour grey,
    That like a boding of ill
Is blotting the morning gay,
    And gathers and darkens still!

Away from the stupid book!
    For, like the fog's weary rest,
With anger dull it fills each nook
    Of my aching and misty breast.

Over some shining shore,
    There hangeth a space of blue;
A parting 'mid thin clouds hoar
    Where the sunlight is falling through.

The glad waves are kissing the shore
    Rejoice, and tell it for ever;
The boat glides on, while its oar
    Is flashing out of the river.

Oh to be there with thee!
    Thou and I only, my love!
...

George MacDonald