The Hills.

Behind my father's house there lies
    A little grassy brae,
Whose face my childhood's busy feet
    Ran often up in play,
Whence on the chimneys I looked down
    In wonderment alway.

Around the house, where'er I turned,
    Great hills closed up the view;
The town 'midst their converging roots
    Was clasped by rivers two;
From one hill to another sprang
    The sky's great arch of blue.

Oh! how I loved to climb their sides,
    And in the heather lie;
The bridle on my arm did hold
    The pony feeding by;
Beneath, the silvery streams; above,
    The white clouds in the sky.

And now, in wandering about,
    Whene'er I see a hill,
A childish feeling of delight
    Springs in my bosom still;
And longings for the high unknown
    Follow and flow and fill.

For I am always climbing hills,
    And ever passing on,
Hoping on some high mountain peak
    To find my Father's throne;
For hitherto I've only found
    His footsteps in the stone.

And in my wanderings I have met
    A spirit child like me,
Who laid a trusting hand in mine,
    So fearlessly and free,
That so together we have gone,
    Climbing continually.

Upfolded in a spirit bud,
    The child appeared in space,
Not born amid the silent hills,
    But in a busy place;
And yet in every hill we see
    A strange, familiar face.

For they are near our common home;
    And so in trust we go,
Climbing and climbing on and on,
    Whither we do not know;
Not waiting for the mournful dark,
    But for the dawning slow.

Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,--
    A long way we have come!
Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,--
    For we have far to roam,
Climbing and climbing, till we reach
    Our Heavenly Father's 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

Prayer

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

My Two Geniuses

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

To A.J. Scott.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Song Of The Waiting Dead

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.

The Hills.

Behind my father's cottage lies
    A gentle grassy height
Up which I often ran--to gaze
    Back with a wondering sight,
For then the chimneys I thought high
    Were down below me quite!

All round, where'er I turned mine eyes,
    Huge hills closed up the view;
The town 'mid their converging roots
    Was clasped by rivers two;
From, one range to another sprang
    The sky's great vault of blue.

It was a joy to climb their sides,
    And in the heather lie!
A joy to look at vantage down
    On the castle grim and high!
Blue streams below, white clouds above,
    In silent earth and sky!

And now, where'er my feet may roam,
    At sight of stranger hill
A new sense of the old delight
    Springs in my bosom still,

George MacDonald

A Prayer For The Past

    All sights and sounds of day and year,
    All groups and forms, each leaf and gem,
    Are thine, O God, nor will I fear
    To talk to thee of them.

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

        Therefore the prayerful song I sing
    May come to thee in ordered words:
    Though lowly born, it needs not cling
    In terror to its chords.

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

        That all the lost years garnered lie
    In this thy casket, my dim soul;
    And thou wilt, once, th...

George MacDonald

From North Wales: To The Mother

When the summer gave us a longer day,
And the leaves were thickest, I went away:
Like an isle, through dark clouds, of the infinite blue,
Was that summer-ramble from London and you.

It was but one burst into life and air,
One backward glance on the skirts of care,
A height on the hills with the smoke below--
And the joy that came quickly was quick to go.

But I know and I cannot forget so soon
How the Earth is shone on by Sun and Moon;
How the clouds hide the mountains, and how they move
When the morning sunshine lies warm above.

I know how the waters fall and run
In the rocks and the heather, away from the sun;
How they hang like garlands on all hill-sides,
And are the land's music, those crystal tides.

I know how they gather in valleys...

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

I Would I Were A Child.

    I would I were a child,
That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father!
And follow Thee with running feet, or rather
    Be led thus through the wild.

    How I would hold thy hand!
My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting,
Which casts all beauteous shadows, ever shifting,
    Over this sea and land.

    If a dark thing came near,
I would but creep within thy mantle's folding,
Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding,
    And so forget my fear.

    O soul, O soul, rejoice!
Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning;
A trembling child, yet his, and worth the winning
    With gentle eyes and voice.

    The words like echoes flow.
They are too good; mine I can call them never;
Such water drinking once, I should ...

George MacDonald

Tell Me.

"Traveller, what lies over the hill?
    Traveller, tell to me:
Tip-toe-high on the window-sill
    Over I cannot see."

"My child, a valley green lies there,
    Lovely with trees, and shy;
And a tiny brook that says, 'Take care,
    Or I'll drown you by and by!'"

"And what comes next?"--"A little town,
    And a towering hill again;
More hills and valleys up and down,
    And a river now and then."

"And what comes next?"--"A lonely moor
    Without one beaten way,
And slow clouds drifting dull before
    A wind that will not stay."

"And then?"--"Dark rocks and yellow sand,
    Blue sea and a moaning tide."
"And then?"--"More sea, and then more land,
    With rivers deep and wide."

"And then?"--"Oh, rock and mo...

George MacDonald