Going To Sleep

    Little one, you must not fret
    That I take your clothes away;
    Better sleep you so will get,
    And at morning wake more gay--
        Saith the children's mother.

    You I must unclothe again,
    For you need a better dress;
    Too much worn are body and brain;
    You need everlastingness--
        Saith the heavenly father.

    I went down death's lonely stair;
    Laid my garments in the tomb;
    Dressed again one morning fair;
    Hastened up, and hied me home--
        Saith the elder brother.

    Then I will not be afraid
    Any ill can come to me;
    When 'tis time to go to bed,
    I will rise and go with thee--
        Saith the little brother.

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

Sunday

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Laverock

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Twa Gordons

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

To Lady Noel Byron

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.

Bedtime

    "Come, children, put away your toys;
    Roll up that kite's long line;
    The day is done for girls and boys--
    Look, it is almost nine!
    Come, weary foot, and sleepy head,
    Get up, and come along to bed."

    The children, loath, must yet obey;
    Up the long stair they creep;
    Lie down, and something sing or say
    Until they fall asleep,
    To steal through caverns of the night
    Into the morning's golden light.

    We, elder ones, sit up more late,
    And tasks unfinished ply,
    But, gently busy, watch and wait--
    Dear sister, you and I,
    To hear the Father, with soft tread,
    Coming to carry us to bed.

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

Foolish Children

    Waking in the night to pray,
    Sleeping when the answer comes,
    Foolish are we even at play--
    Tearfully we beat our drums!
    Cast the good dry bread away,
    Weep, and gather up the crumbs!

    "Evermore," while shines the day,
    "Lord," we cry, "thy will be done!"
    Soon as evening groweth gray,
    Thy fair will we fain would shun!
    "Take, oh, take thy hand away!
    See the horrid dark begun!"

    "Thou hast conquered Death," we say,
    "Christ, whom Hades could not keep!"
    Then, "Ah, see the pallid clay!
    Death it is," we cry, "not sleep!
    Grave, take all. Shut out the Day.
    Sit we on the ground and weep!"

    Gathering potsherds all the day,
    Truant children, Lord, we roam;
    F...

George MacDonald

The Sleepless Jesus

    'Tis time to sleep, my little boy:
        Why gaze thy bright eyes so?
    At night our children, for new joy
        Home to thy father go,
    But thou art wakeful! Sleep, my child;
        The moon and stars are gone;
    The wind is up and raving wild,
        But thou art smiling on!

    My child, thou hast immortal eyes
        That see by their own light;
    They see the children's blood--it lies
        Red-glowing through the night!
    Thou hast an ever-open ear
        For sob or cry or moan:
    Thou seemest not to see or hear,
        Thou only smilest on!

    When first thou camest to the earth,
        All sounds of strife were still;
    A silence lay about thy birth,
        And thou didst sleep thy fill:
...

George MacDonald

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

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