Dorcas

    If I might guess, then guess I would
        That, mid the gathered folk,
    This gentle Dorcas one day stood,
        And heard when Jesus spoke.

    She saw the woven seamless coat--
        Half envious, for his sake:
    "Oh, happy hands," she said, "that wrought
        The honoured thing to make!"

    Her eyes with longing tears grow dim:
        She never can come nigh
    To work one service poor for him
        For whom she glad would die!

    But, hark, he speaks! Oh, precious word!
        And she has heard indeed!
    "When did we see thee naked, Lord,
        And clothed thee in thy need?"

    "The King shall answer, Inasmuch
        As to my brethren ye
    Did it--even to the least of such--
        Ye did it unto me."

    Home, home she went, and plied the loom,
        And Jesus' poor arrayed.
    She died--they wept about the room,
        And showed the coats she made.

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

Obedience

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Translations. - Die Heimkehr. (From Heine.)

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Autumn Song

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Songs Of The Spring Nights

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.

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

After An Old Legend.

The monk was praying in his cell,
    With bowed head praying sore;
He had been praying on his knees
    For two long hours and more.

As of themselves, all suddenly,
    His eyelids opened wide;
Before him on the ground he saw
    A man's feet close beside;

And almost to the feet came down
    A garment wove throughout;
Such garment he had never seen
    In countries round about!

His eyes he lifted tremblingly
    Until a hand they spied:
A chisel-scar on it he saw,
    And a deep, torn scar beside.

His eyes they leaped up to the face,
    His heart gave one wild bound,
Then stood as if its work were done--
    The Master he had found!

With sudden clang the convent bell
    Told him the poor did wait
...

George MacDonald

One of the Least of These.

'Twas on a day of cold and sleet,
A little nomad of the street
With tattered garments, shoeless feet,
    And face with hunger wan,
Great wonder-eyes, though beautiful,
Hedged in by features pinched and dull,
Betraying lines so pitiful
    By sorrow sharply drawn;

Ere yet the service half was o'er,
Approached the great cathedral door
As choir and organ joined to pour
    Their sweetness on the air;
Then, sudden, bold, impelled to glide
With fleetness to the altar's side,
Her trembling form she sought to hide
    Amid the shadows there,

Half fearful lest some worshiper,
Enveloped close in robes of fur,
Had cast a scornful glance at her
    As she had stolen by,
But soon the swelling anthem, fraught
With reverence, her spirit...

Hattie Howard

The Widows' Tears; Or, Dirge Of Dorcas

Come pity us, all ye who see
Our harps hung on the willow-tree;
Come pity us, ye passers-by,
Who see or hear poor widows' cry;
Come pity us, and bring your ears
And eyes to pity widows' tears.
CHOR.And when you are come hither,
Then we will keep
A fast, and weep
Our eyes out all together,

For Tabitha; who dead lies here,
Clean wash'd, and laid out for the bier.
O modest matrons, weep and wail!
For now the corn and wine must fail;
The basket and the bin of bread,
Wherewith so many souls were fed,
CHOR.Stand empty here for ever;
And ah!the poor,
At thy worn door,
Shall be relieved never.

Woe worth the time, woe worth the day,
That reft us of thee, Tabitha!
For we have lost, with thee, the meal,
The bits, the morsels...

Robert Herrick

My Heart

    I.

    Night, with her power to silence day,
        Filled up my lonely room,
    Quenching all sounds but one that lay
        Beyond her passing doom,
    Where in his shed a workman gay
        Went on despite the gloom.

    I listened, and I knew the sound,
        And the trade that he was plying;
    For backwards, forwards, bound on bound,
        A shuttle was flying, flying--
    Weaving ever--till, all unwound,
        The weft go out a sighing.


    II.

    As hidden in thy chamber lowest
        As in the sky the lark,
    Thou, mystic thing, on working goest
        Without the poorest spark,
    And yet light's garment round me throwest,
        Who else, as thou, were dark.

    With bod...

George MacDonald

My Heart.

I heard, in darkness, on my bed,
    The beating of my heart
To servant feet and regnant head
    A common life impart,
By the liquid cords, in every thread
    Unbroken as they start.

Night, with its power to silence day,
    Filled up my lonely room;
All motion quenching, save what lay
    Beyond its passing doom,
Where in his shed the workman gay
    Went on despite the gloom.

I listened, and I knew the sound,
    And the trade that he was plying;
For backwards, forwards, bound and bound,
    'Twas a shuttle, flying, flying;
Weaving ever life's garment round,
    Till the weft go out with sighing.

I said, O mystic thing, thou goest
    On working in the dark;
In space's shoreless sea thou rowest,
    Concealed with...

George MacDonald