Oh Thou Of Little Faith!

    Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies
    Buried in sepulchre of ghastly snow;
    But spring is floating up the southern skies,
    And darkling the pale snowdrop waits below.

    Let me persuade: in dull December's day
    We scarce believe there is a month of June;
    But up the stairs of April and of May
    The hot sun climbeth to the summer's noon.

    Yet hear me: I love God, and half I rest.
    O better! God loves thee, so all rest thou.
    He is our summer, our dim-visioned Best;--
    And in his heart thy prayer is resting now.

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

Dorcas

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

To Aurelio Saffi.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Haunted House

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Aurora Borealis

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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In February

Now in the dark of February rains,
    Poor lovers of the sunshine, spring is born,
    The earthy fields are full of hidden corn,
And March's violets bud along the lanes;

Therefore with joy believe in what remains.
    And thou who dost not feel them, do not scorn
    Our early songs for winter overworn,
And faith in God's handwriting on the plains.

"Hope" writes he, "Love" in the first violet,
    "Joy," even from Heaven, in songs and winds and trees;
    And having caught the happy words in these
While Nature labours with the letters yet,
    Spring cannot cheat us, though her hopes be broken,
    Nor leave us, for we know what God hath spoken.

George MacDonald

A Winter Prayer.

Come through the gloom of clouded skies,
    The slow dim rain and fog athwart;
Through east winds keen with wrong and lies
    Come and lift up my hopeless heart.

Come through the sickness and the pain,
    The sore unrest that tosses still;
Through aching dark that hides the gain
    Come and arouse my fainting will.

Come through the prate of foolish words,
    The science with no God behind;
Through all the pangs of untuned chords
    Speak wisdom to my shaken mind.

Through all the fears that spirits bow
    Of what hath been, or may befall,
Come down and talk with me, for thou
    Canst tell me all about them all.

Hear, hear my sad lone heart entreat,
    Heart of all joy, below, above!
Come near and let me kiss thy feet,<...

George MacDonald

The Holy Snowdrops.

Of old, with goodwill from the skies,
    The holy angels came;
They walked the earth with human eyes,
    And passed away in flame.

But now the angels are withdrawn,
    Because the flowers can speak;
With Christ, we see the dayspring dawn
    In every snowdrop meek.

God sends them forth; to God they tend;
    Not less with love they burn,
That to the earth they lowly bend,
    And unto dust return.

No miracle in them hath place,
    For this world is their home;
An utterance of essential grace
    The angel-snowdrops come.

George MacDonald

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!
    Blind hope, of all my household stuff,
        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.

    List! list! his wind among the pines
        Hark! hark! that rushi...

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

The Flower-Angels

    Of old, with goodwill from the skies--
    God's message to them given--
    The angels came, a glad surprise,
    And went again to heaven.

    But now the angels are grown rare,
    Needed no more as then;
    Far lowlier messengers can bear
    God's goodwill unto men.

    Each year, the snowdrops' pallid dawn
    Breaks from the earth below;
    Light spreads, till, from the dark updrawn,
    The noontide roses glow.

    The snowdrops first--the dawning gray;
    Then out the roses burn!
    They speak their word, grow dim--away
    To holy dust return.

    Of oracles were little dearth,
    Should heaven continue dumb;
    From lowliest corners of the earth
    God's messages will come.

    In thy face...

George MacDonald