I Know What Beauty Is

    I know what beauty is, for thou
        Hast set the world within my heart;
        Of me thou madest it a part;
    I never loved it more than now.

    I know the Sabbath afternoons;
        The light asleep upon the graves:
        Against the sky the poplar waves;
    The river murmurs organ tunes.

    I know the spring with bud and bell;
        The hush in summer woods at night;
        Autumn, when trees let in more light;
    Fantastic winter's lovely spell.

    I know the rapture music gives,
        Its mystery of ordered tones:
        Dream-muffled soul, it loves and moans,
    And, half-alive, comes in and lives.

    And verse I know, whose concord high
        Of thought and music lifts the soul
        Where many a glimmering starry shoal
    Glides through the Godhead's living sky.

    Yea, Beauty's regnant All I know--
        The imperial head, the thoughtful eyes;
        The God-imprisoned harmonies
    That out in gracious motions go.

    But I leave all, O Son of man,
        Put off my shoes, and come to thee!
        Most lovely thou of all I see,
    Most potent thou of all that can!

    As child forsakes his favourite toy,
        His sisters' sport, his new-found nest,
        And, climbing to his mother's breast,
    Enjoys yet more his late-left joy--

    I lose to find. On fair-browed bride
        Fair pearls their fairest light afford;
        So, gathered round thy glory, Lord,
    All glory else is glorified.

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

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George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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Of The Son Of Man

I. I honour Nature, holding it unjust
To look with jealousy on her designs;
With every passing year more fast she twines
About my heart; with her mysterious dust
Claim I a fellowship not less august
Although she works before me and combines
Her changing forms, wherever the sun shines
Spreading a leafy volume on the crust
Of the old world; and man himself likewise
Is of her making: wherefore then divorce
What God hath joined thus, and rend by force
Spirit away from substance, bursting ties
By which in one great bond of unity
God hath together bound all things that be?

II. And in these lines my purpose is to show
That He who left the Father, though he came
Not with art-splendour or the earthly flame
Of genius, yet in that he did bestow
His own tr...

George MacDonald

Songs Of The Spring Nights

    I.

    The flush of green that dyed the day
    Hath vanished in the moon;
    Flower-scents float stronger out, and play
    An unborn, coming tune.

    One southern eve like this, the dew
    Had cooled and left the ground;
    The moon hung half-way from the blue,
    No disc, but conglobed round;

    Light-leaved acacias, by the door,
    Bathed in the balmy air,
    Clusters of blossomed moonlight bore,
    And breathed a perfume rare;

    Great gold-flakes from the starry sky
    Fell flashing on the deep:
    One scent of moist earth floating by,
    Almost it made me weep.


    II.

    Those gorgeous stars were not my own,
    They made me alien go!
    The mother o'er her head had thrown...

George MacDonald

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

To Beauty.

    Beauty, beloved of all gentle hearts
        And pure, and cherished of the gifted tribe
    Whose skill to canvas and even stone imparts
        Such things as words are powerless to describe.
    And bards, who woo thee in the silent shade
        And dote upon thee under moonlit skies,
    And lovers, who behold thee new-array'd,
        As our first parents did in Paradise!

    These all have been thy priests.    In times remote,
        In Athens and the cool Thessalian dells,
    They sung thy liturgy with dulcet note,
        And quaff'd thy chalice from the sacred wells
    Of leafy Helicon.    Beneath the brows
        Of fam'd Olympus and among the isles
    Of the Aegean sea they paid their vows,
        And read thy lore in Nature's frowns and...

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Words In The Night

I woke at midnight, and my heart,
My beating heart, said this to me:
Thou seest the moon, how calm and bright!
The world is fair by day and night,
But what is that to thee?
One touch to me, down dips the light
Over the land and sea.
All is mine, all is my own!
Toss the purple fountain high!
The breast of man is a vat of stone;
I am alive, I, only I!

One little touch and all is dark--
The winter with its sparkling moons,
The spring with all her violets,
The crimson dawns and rich sunsets,
The autumn's yellowing noons!
I only toss my purple jets,
And thou art one that swoons
Upon a night of gust and roar,
Shipwrecked among the waves, and seems
Across the purple hills to roam:
Sweet odours touch him from the foam,
And downward ...

George MacDonald

The Diary Of An Old Soul. - November

        1.

        THOU art of this world, Christ. Thou know'st it all;
        Thou know'st our evens, our morns, our red and gray;
        How moons, and hearts, and seasons rise and fall;
        How we grow weary plodding on the way;
        Of future joy how present pain bereaves,
        Rounding us with a dark of mere decay,
        Tossed with a drift Of summer-fallen leaves.

        2.

        Thou knowest all our weeping, fainting, striving;
        Thou know'st how very hard it is to be;
        How hard to rouse faint will not yet reviving;
        To do the pure thing, trusting all to thee;
        To hold thou art there, for all no face we see;
        How hard to think, through cold and dark and dearth,
        That thou art nearer ...

George MacDonald