Songs Of The Spring Days

    I.

    A gentle wind, of western birth
    On some far summer sea,
    Wakes daisies in the wintry earth,
    Wakes hopes in wintry me.

    The sun is low; the paths are wet,
    And dance with frolic hail;
    The trees--their spring-time is not yet--
    Swing sighing in the gale.

    Young gleams of sunshine peep and play;
    Clouds shoulder in between;
    I scarce believe one coming day
    The earth will all be green.

    The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves,
    And flaps his snowy wing:
    Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves;
    Thou canst not bar our spring.


    II.

    Up comes the primrose, wondering;
    The snowdrop droopeth by;
    The holy spirit of the spring
    Is working silently.

    Soft-breathing breezes woo and wile
    The later children out;
    O'er woods and farms a sunny smile
    Is flickering about.

    The earth was cold, hard-hearted, dull;
    To death almost she slept:
    Over her, heaven grew beautiful,
    And forth her beauty crept.

    Showers yet must fall, and waters grow
    Dark-wan with furrowing blast;
    But suns will shine, and soft winds blow,
    Till the year flowers at last.


    III.

    The sky is smiling over me,
    Hath smiled away the frost;
    White daisies star the sky-like lea,
    With buds the wood's embossed.

    Troops of wild flowers gaze at the sky
    Up through the latticed boughs;
    Till comes the green cloud by and by,
    It is not time to house.

    Yours is the day, sweet bird--sing on;
    The winter is forgot;
    Like an ill dream 'tis over and gone:
    Pain that is past, is not.

    Joy that was past is yet the same:
    If care the summer brings,
    'Twill only be another name
    For love that broods, not sings.


    IV.

    Blow on me, wind, from west and south;
    Sweet summer-spirit, blow!
    Come like a kiss from dear child's mouth,
    Who knows not what I know.

    The earth's perfection dawneth soon;
    Ours lingereth alway;
    We have a morning, not a noon;
    Spring, but no summer gay.

    Rose-blotted eve, gold-branded morn
    Crown soon the swift year's life:
    In us a higher hope is born,
    And claims a longer strife.

    Will heaven be an eternal spring
    With summer at the door?
    Or shall we one day tell its king
    That we desire no more?

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 Foolish Harebell

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Diver.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Beloved Disciple

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Christmas-Day, 1878

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

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

Songs Of The Summer Days

    I.

    A glory on the chamber wall!
    A glory in the brain!
    Triumphant floods of glory fall
    On heath, and wold, and plain.

    Earth lieth still in hopeless bliss;
    She has, and seeks no more;
    Forgets that days come after this,
    Forgets the days before.

    Each ripple waves a flickering fire
    Of gladness, as it runs;
    They laugh and flash, and leap and spire,
    And toss ten thousand suns.

    But hark! low, in the world within,
    One sad aeolian tone:
    "Ah! shall we ever, ever win
    A summer of our own?"


    II.

    A morn of winds and swaying trees--
    Earth's jubilance rushing out!
    The birds are fighting with the breeze;
    The waters heave about...

George MacDonald

Songs Of The Autumn Nights

    I.

    O night, send up the harvest moon
    To walk about the fields,
    And make of midnight magic noon
    On lonely tarns and wealds.

    In golden ranks, with golden crowns,
    All in the yellow land,
    Old solemn kings in rustling gowns,
    The shocks moon-charmed stand.

    Sky-mirror she, afloat in space,
    Beholds our coming morn:
    Her heavenly joy hath such a grace,
    It ripens earthly corn;

    Like some lone saint with upward eyes,
    Lost in the deeps of prayer:
    The people still their prayers and sighs,
    And gazing ripen there.

    II.

    So, like the corn moon-ripened last,
    Would I, weary and gray,
    On golden memories ripen fast,
    And ripening pass awa...

George MacDonald

Songs Of The Winter Days

    I.

    The sky has turned its heart away,
    The earth its sorrow found;
    The daisies turn from childhood's play,
    And creep into the ground.

    The earth is black and cold and hard;
    Thin films of dry white ice,
    Across the rugged wheel-tracks barred,
    The children's feet entice.

    Dark flows the stream, as if it mourned
    The winter in the land;
    With idle icicles adorned,
    That mill-wheel soon will stand.

    But, friends, to say 'tis cold, and part,
    Is to let in the cold;
    We'll make a summer of the heart,
    And laugh at winter old.


    II.

    With vague dead gleam the morning white
    Comes through the window-panes;
    The clouds have fallen all the ni...

George MacDonald

Songs Of The Autumn Days

    I.

    We bore him through the golden land,
    One early harvest morn;
    The corn stood ripe on either hand--
    He knew all about the corn.

    How shall the harvest gathered be
    Without him standing by?
    Without him walking on the lea,
    The sky is scarce a sky.

    The year's glad work is almost done;
    The land is rich in fruit;
    Yellow it floats in air and sun--
    Earth holds it by the root.

    Why should earth hold it for a day
    When harvest-time is come?
    Death is triumphant o'er decay,
    And leads the ripened home.


    II.

    And though the sun be not so warm,
    His shining is not lost;
    Both corn and hope, of heart and farm,
    Lie hid from coming...

George MacDonald

On A December Day

I.

This is the sweetness of an April day;
    The softness of the spring is on the face
    Of the old year. She has no natural grace,
But something comes to her from far away

Out of the Past, and on her old decay
    The beauty of her childhood you can trace.--
    And yet she moveth with a stormy pace,
And goeth quickly.--Stay, old year, oh, stay!

We do not like new friends, we love the old;
    With young, fierce, hopeful hearts we ill agree;
But thou art patient, stagnant, calm, and cold,
    And not like that new year that is to be;--
        Life, promise, love, her eyes may fill, fair child!
        We know the past, and will not be beguiled.

II.

Yet the free heart will not be captive long;
    And if she changes often...

George MacDonald