Of One Who Died In Spring

Loosener of springs, he died by thee!
Softness, not hardness, sent him home;
He loved thee--and thou mad'st him free
Of all the place thou comest from!

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 Bonny, Bonny Dell

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Song Of A Poor Pilgrim

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Girl That Lost Things

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

King Cole

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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George Rolleston

    Dead art thou? No more dead than was the maid
    Over whose couch the saving God did stand--
    "She is not dead but sleepeth," said,
    And took her by the hand!

    Thee knowledge never from Life's pathway wiled,
    But following still where life's great father led,
    He turned, and taking up his child,
    Raised thee too from the dead,

    O living, thou hast passed thy second birth,
    Found all things new, and some things lovely strange;
    But thou wilt not forget the earth,
    Or in thy loving change!

George MacDonald

Song

I was very cold
    In the summer weather;
The sun shone all his gold,
But I was very cold--
Alas, we were grown old,
    Love and I together!
Oh, but I was cold
    In the summer weather!

Sudden I grew warmer
    Though the brooks were frozen:
"Truly, scorn did harm her!"
I said, and I grew warmer;
"Better men the charmer
    Knows at least a dozen!"
I said, and I grew warmer
    Though the brooks were frozen.

Spring sits on her nest,
    Daisies and white clover;
And my heart at rest
Lies in the spring's young nest:
My love she loves me best,
    And the frost is over!
Spring sits on her nest,
    Daisies and white clover!

George MacDonald

Wild Flowers

    Content Primroses,
    With hearts at rest in your thick leaves' soft care,
    Peeping as from his mother's lap the child
    Who courts shy shelter from his own open air!--
    Hanging Harebell,
    Whose blue heaven to no wanderer ever closes,
    Though thou still lookest earthward from thy domed cell!--
    Fluttering-wild
    Anemone, so well
    Named of the Wind, to whom thou, fettered-free,
    Yieldest thee, helpless--wilfully,
    With Take me or leave me,
    Sweet Wind, I am thine own Anemone!--
    Thirsty Arum, ever dreaming
    Of lakes in wildernesses gleaming!--
    Fire-winged Pimpernel,
    Communing with some hidden well,
    And secrets with the sun-god holding,
    At fixed hour folding and unfolding!--
    How ...

George MacDonald

To A February Primrose

I know not what among the grass thou art,
    Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower,
    Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power
To send thine image through them to the heart;
But when I push the frosty leaves apart
    And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower
    Thou growest up within me from that hour,
And through the snow I with the spring depart.

I have no words. But fragrant is the breath,
    Pale beauty, of thy second life within.
There is a wind that cometh for thy death,
    But thou a life immortal dost begin,
Where in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell
Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!

George MacDonald

Spring Song

        Days of old,
    Ye are not dead, though gone from me;
        Ye are not cold,
    But like the summer-birds fled o'er some sea.

    The sun brings back the swallows fast
        O'er the sea;
    When he cometh at the last,
    The days of old come back to me.

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