Death

    Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old:
    A fresher birth brings every new year in.
    Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin.
    See now, I'll be to you an angel bold!
    My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold,
    Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin.
    --Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win!
    Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:--
    Behind me comes a shining one indeed;
    Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down,
    And set upon his day night's starry crown!
    Death, say'st thou? Nay--thine be no caitiff creed!--
    A woman-angel! see--in long white gown!
    The mother of our youth!--she maketh speed.

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

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George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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To My Aging Friends

    It is no winter night comes down
        Upon our hearts, dear friends of old;
    But a May evening, softly brown,
        Whose wind is rather cold.

    We are not, like yon sad-eyed West,
        Phantoms that brood o'er Time's dust-hoard,
    We are like yon Moon--in mourning drest,
        But gazing on her lord.

    Come nearer to the hearth, sweet friends,
        Draw nigher, closer, hand and chair;
    Ours is a love that never ends,
        For God is dearest there!

    We will not talk about the past,
        We will not ponder ancient pain;
    Those are but deep foundations cast
        For peaks of soaring gain!

    We, waiting Dead, will warm our bones
        At our poor smouldering earthly fire;
    And ta...

George MacDonald

The Death Of The Old Year.

The weary Old Year is dead at last;
His corpse 'mid the ruins of Time is cast,
Where the mouldering wrecks of lost Thought lie,
And the rich-hued blossoms of Passion die
To a withering grass that droops o'er his grave,
The shadowy Titan's refuge cave.
Strange lights from pale moony Memory lie
On the weedy columns beneath its eye;
And strange is the sound of the ghostlike breeze,
In the lingering leaves on the skeleton trees;
And strange is the sound of the falling shower,
When the clouds of dead pain o'er the spirit lower;
Unheard in the home he inhabiteth,
The land where all lost things are gathered by Death.

Alone I reclined in the closing year;
Voice, nor breathing, nor step was near;
And I said in the weariness of my breast:
Weary Old Year, thou...

George MacDonald

Death

    When in the bosom of the eldest night
    This body lies, cold as a sculptured rest;
    When through its shaded windows comes no light,
    And its pale hands are folded on its breast--

        How shall I fare, who had to wander out,
    And of the unknown land the frontier cross,
    Peering vague-eyed, uncertain, all about,
    Unclothed, mayhap unwelcomed, bathed in loss?

        Shall I depart slow-floating like a mist,
    Over the city murmuring beneath;
    Over the trees and fields, where'er I list,
    Seeking the mountain and the lonely heath?

        Or will a darkness, o'er material shows
    Descending, hide them from the spirit's sight;
    As from the sun a blotting radiance flows
    Athwart the stars all glorious through the...

George MacDonald

Awake!

    The stars are all watching;
    God's angel is catching
At thy skirts in the darkness deep!
    Gold hinges grating,
    The mighty dead waiting,
Why dost thou sleep?

    Years without number,
    Ages of slumber,
Stiff in the track of the infinite One!
    Dead, can I think it?
    Dropt like a trinket,
A thing whose uses are done!

    White wings are crossing,
    Glad waves are tossing,
The earth flames out in crimson and green
    Spring is appearing,
    Summer is nearing--
Where hast thou been?

    Down in some cavern,
    Death's sleepy tavern,
Housing, carousing with spectres of night?
    There is my right hand!
    Grasp it full tight and
Spring to the light.

    Wonder, oh, wonder!<...

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

Sweet Death

The sweetest blossoms die.
    And so it was that, going day by day
    Unto the church to praise and pray,
And crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully,
    I saw how on the graves the flowers
    Shed their fresh leaves in showers,
And how their perfume rose up to the sky
    Before it passed away.

The youngest blossoms die.
    They die, and fall and nourish the rich earth
    From which they lately had their birth;
Sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth by
    And is as though it had not been: -
    All colors turn to green:
The bright hues vanish, and the odours fly,
    The grass hath lasting worth.

And youth and beauty die.
    So be it, O my God, Thou God of truth:
    Better than beauty and than youth
Are Saints and An...

Christina Georgina Rossetti