Sweeping The Floor.

Sweep and sweep and sweep the floor,
    Sweep the dust, pick up the pin;
Make it clean from fire to door,
    Clean for father to come in!

Mother said that God goes sweeping,
    Looking, sweeping with a broom,
All the time that we are sleeping,
    For a shilling in the room:

Did he drop it out of glory,
    Walking far above the birds?
Or did parson make the story
    For the thinking afterwards?

If I were the swept-for shilling
    I would hearken through the gloom;
Roll out fast, and fall down willing
    Right before the sweeping broom!

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 Giver.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Sonnet. About Jesus. XVII

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

A Dream Song

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Prism

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.

Cleaning The Windows.

Wash the window; rub it dry;
    Make the ray-door clean and bright:
He who lords it in the sky
    Loves on cottage floors to light!

Looking over sea and beck,
    Mountain-forest, orchard-bloom,
He can spy the smallest speck
    Anywhere about the room!

See how bright his torch is blazing
    In the heart of mother's store!
Strange! I never saw him gazing
    So into that press before!

Ah, I see!--the wooden pane
    In the window, dull and dead,
Father called its loss a gain,
    And a glass one put instead!

What a difference it makes!
    How it melts the filmy gloom!
What a little more it takes
    Much to brighten up a room!

There I spy a dusty streak!
    There a corner not quite clean!
There a...

George MacDonald

The Lost House

Out of thy door I run to do the thing
    That calls upon me. Straight the wind of words
Whoops from mine ears the sounds of them that sing
About their work, "My God, my father-king!"

I turn in haste to see thy blessed door,
    But, lo, a cloud of flies and bats and birds,
    And stalking vapours, and vague monster-herds
        Have risen and lighted, rushed and swollen between!

Ah me! the house of peace is there no more.
Was it a dream then?--Walls, fireside, and floor,
    And sweet obedience, loving, calm, and free,
        Are vanished--gone as they had never been!

    I labour groaning. Comes a sudden sheen!--
And I am kneeling at my father's knee,
Sighing with joy, and hoping utterly.

George MacDonald

Washing The Clothes.

This is the way we wash the clo'es
    Free from dirt and smoke and clay!
Through and through the water flows,
    Carries Ugly right away!

This is the way we bleach the clo'es:
    Lay them out upon the green;
Through and through the sunshine goes,
    Makes them white as well as clean!

This is the way we dry the clo'es:
    Hang them on the bushes about;
Through and through the soft wind blows,
    Draws and drives the wetness out!

Water, sun, and windy air
    Make the clothes clean, white, and sweet
Lay them now in lavender
    For the Sunday, folded neat!

George MacDonald

By The Cradle.

Close her eyes: she must not peep!
Let her little puds go slack;
Slide away far into sleep:
Sis will watch till she comes back!

Mother's knitting at the door,
Waiting till the kettle sings;
When the kettle's song is o'er
She will set the bright tea-things.

Father's busy making hay
In the meadow by the brook,
Not so very far away--
Close its peeps, it needn't look!

God is round us everywhere--
Sees the scythe glitter and rip;
Watches baby gone somewhere;
Sees how mother's fingers skip!

Sleep, dear baby; sleep outright:
    Mother's sitting just behind:
Father's only out of sight;
    God is round us like the wind.

George MacDonald

Awake!

    The stars are all watching;
    God's angel is catching
At thy skirts in the darkness deep!
    Gold hinges grating,
    The mighty dead waiting,
Why dost thou sleep?

    Years without number,
    Ages of slumber,
Stiff in the track of the infinite One!
    Dead, can I think it?
    Dropt like a trinket,
A thing whose uses are done!

    White wings are crossing,
    Glad waves are tossing,
The earth flames out in crimson and green
    Spring is appearing,
    Summer is nearing--
Where hast thou been?

    Down in some cavern,
    Death's sleepy tavern,
Housing, carousing with spectres of night?
    There is my right hand!
    Grasp it full tight and
Spring to the light.

    Wonder, oh, wonder!<...

George MacDonald

The Chimney-Sweeper

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry "Weep! weep! weep! weep!"
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said,
"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."

And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!--
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and let them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river, and shine i...

William Blake