Hunger

Father, I cry to thee for bread
    With hungred longing, eager prayer;
Thou hear'st, and givest me instead
    More hunger and a half-despair.

0 Lord, how long? My days decline,
    My youth is lapped in memories old;
I need not bread alone, but wine--
    See, cup and hand to thee I hold!

And yet thou givest: thanks, O Lord,
    That still my heart with hunger faints!
The day will come when at thy board
    I sit, forgetting all my plaints.

If rain must come and winds must blow,
    And I pore long o'er dim-seen chart,
Yet, Lord, let not the hunger go,
    And keep the faintness at my heart.

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

Translations. - Expectation And Fulfilment. (From Schiller.)

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

By The Cradle.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

New Year's Eve: A Waking Dream

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Sun And Moon.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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God; Not Gift

    Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er;
        My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow;
    Ghastly and dry, my desert shore
        Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show.

    'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky;
        Stillest the heart-throb of my sea;
    Tellest the sad wind not to sigh,
        Yea, life itself to wait for thee!

    Lord, here I am, empty enough!
        My music but a soundless moan!
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        Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone!

    Shall hope too go, that I may trust
        Purely in thee, and spite of all?
    Then turn my very heart to dust--
        On thee, on thee, I yet will call.

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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

Longing

    My heart is full of inarticulate pain,
        And beats laborious. Cold ungenial looks
    Invade my sanctuary. Men of gain,
        Wise in success, well-read in feeble books,
    No nigher come, I pray: your air is drear;
    'Tis winter and low skies when ye appear.

    Beloved, who love beauty and fair truth,
        Come nearer me; too near ye cannot come;
    Make me an atmosphere with your sweet youth;
        Give me your souls to breathe in, a large room;
    Speak not a word, for, see, my spirit lies
    Helpless and dumb; shine on me with your eyes.

    O all wide places, far from feverous towns;
        Great shining seas; pine forests; mountains wild;
    Rock-bosomed shores; rough heaths, and sheep-cropt downs;
        Vast pallid clo...

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
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A Prayer For The Past

    All sights and sounds of day and year,
    All groups and forms, each leaf and gem,
    Are thine, O God, nor will I fear
    To talk to thee of them.

        Too great thy heart is to despise,
    Whose day girds centuries about;
    From things which we name small, thine eyes
    See great things looking out.

        Therefore the prayerful song I sing
    May come to thee in ordered words:
    Though lowly born, it needs not cling
    In terror to its chords.

        I think that nothing made is lost;
    That not a moon has ever shone,
    That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed
    But to my soul is gone.

        That all the lost years garnered lie
    In this thy casket, my dim soul;
    And thou wilt, once, th...

George MacDonald

The Thank Offering.

My little child receives my gift,
    A simple piece of bread;
But to her mouth she doth not lift
    The love in bread conveyed,
Till on my lips, unerring, swift,
    The morsel first is laid.

This is her grace before her food,
    This her libation poured;
Uplift, like offering Aaron good
    Heaved up unto the Lord;
More riches in the thanks than could
    A thousand gifts afford!

My Father, every gift of thine,
    Teach me to lift to Thee;
Not else know I the love divine,
    With which it comes to me;
Not else the tenfold gift is mine
    Of taking thankfully.

Yea, all my being I would lift,
    An offering of me;
Then only truly mine the gift,
    When so received by Thee;
Then shall I go, rejoicing, swift...

George MacDonald