Love Is Home

    Love is the part, and love is the whole;
    Love is the robe, and love is the pall;
    Ruler of heart and brain and soul,
    Love is the lord and the slave of all!
    I thank thee, Love, that thou lov'st me;
    I thank thee more that I love thee.

    Love is the rain, and love is the air,
    Love is the earth that holdeth fast;
    Love is the root that is buried there,
    Love is the open flower at last!
    I thank thee, Love all round about,
    That the eyes of my love are looking out.

    Love is the sun, and love is the sea;
    Love is the tide that comes and goes;
    Flowing and flowing it comes to me;
    Ebbing and ebbing to thee it flows!
    Oh my sun, and my wind, and tide!
    My sea, and my shore, and all beside!

    Light, oh light that art by showing;
    Wind, oh wind that liv'st by motion;
    Thought, oh thought that art by knowing;
    Will, that art born in self-devotion!
    Love is you, though not all of you know it;
    Ye are not love, yet ye always show it!

    Faithful creator, heart-longed-for father,
    Home of our heart-infolded brother,
    Home to thee all thy glories gather--
    All are thy love, and there is no other!
    O Love-at-rest, we loves that roam--
    Home unto thee, we are coming home!

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

The Diary Of An Old Soul. - June.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Travellers' Song

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

A Prayer

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Tell Me.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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Love's History

Love, the baby,
    Crept abroad to pluck a flower:
One said, Yes, sir; one said, Maybe;
    One said, Wait the hour.

Love, the boy,
    Joined the youngsters at their play:
But they gave him little joy,
    And he went away.

Love, the youth,
    Roamed the country, quiver-laden;
From him fled away in sooth
    Many a man and maiden!

Love, the man,
    Sought a service all about;
But they called him feeble, one
    They could do without.

Love, the aged,
    Walking, bowed, the shadeless miles,
Read a volume many-paged,
    Full of tears and smiles.

Love, the weary,
    Tottered down the shelving road:
At its foot, lo, Night, the starry,
    Meeting him from God!

"Love, the holy,"
...

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

Home and Love

    Just Home and Love! the words are small
    Four little letters unto each;
    And yet you will not find in all
    The wide and gracious range of speech
    Two more so tenderly complete:
    When angels talk in Heaven above,
    I'm sure they have no words more sweet
    Than Home and Love.

    Just Home and Love! it's hard to guess
    Which of the two were best to gain;
    Home without Love is bitterness;
    Love without Home is often pain.
    No! each alone will seldom do;
    Somehow they travel hand and glove:
    If you win one you must have two,
    Both Home and Love.

    And if you've both, well then I'm sure
    You ought to sing the whole day long;
    It doesn't matter if you're poor
    With these to make divine...

Robert William Service

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

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

A Prayer For The Past.

    All sights and sounds of every year,
All groups and forms, each leaf and gem,
Are thine, O God, nor need I fear
To speak to Thee of them.

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

    Therefore this prayerful song I sing
May come to Thee in ordered words;
Therefore its sweet sounds need not cling
In terror to their chords.

            *            *            *            *            *

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

    That all the dead years garnered lie
In this gem-casket, my dim soul;
And that thy hand m...

George MacDonald