The Holy Midnight

    Ah, holy midnight of the soul,
        When stars alone are high;
    When winds are resting at their goal,
        And sea-waves only sigh!

    Ambition faints from out the will;
        Asleep sad longing lies;
    All hope of good, all fear of ill,
        All need of action dies;

    Because God is, and claims the life
        He kindled in thy brain;
    And thou in him, rapt far from strife,
        Diest and liv'st again.

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

Unrest

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Hard Times

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Better Things

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

De Profundis

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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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

Sleep

Oh! is it Death that comes
To have a foretaste of the whole?
    To-night the planets and the stars
    Will glimmer through my window-bars
But will not shine upon my soul!

For I shall lie as dead
Though yet I am above the ground;
    All passionless, with scarce a breath,
    With hands of rest and eyes of death,
I shall be carried swiftly round.

Or if my life should break
The idle night with doubtful gleams,
    Through mossy arches will I go,
    Through arches ruinous and low,
And chase the true and false in dreams.

Why should I fall asleep?
When I am still upon my bed
    The moon will shine, the winds will rise
    And all around and through the skies
The light clouds travel o'er my head!

O busy, busy things,

George MacDonald

A Noonday Melody

Everything goes to its rest;
    The hills are asleep in the noon;
And life is as still in its nest
    As the moon when she looks on a moon
In the depth of a calm river's breast
    As it steals through a midnight in June.

The streams have forgotten the sea
    In the dream of their musical sound;
The sunlight is thick on the tree,
    And the shadows lie warm on the ground,--
So still, you may watch them and see
    Every breath that awakens around.

The churchyard lies still in the heat,
    With its handful of mouldering bone,
As still as the long stalk of wheat
    In the shadow that sits by the stone,
As still as the grass at my feet
    When I walk in the meadows alone.

The waves are asleep on the main,
    And the ships ...

George MacDonald

Songs Of The Summer Nights

    I.

    The dreary wind of night is out,
    Homeless and wandering slow;
    O'er pale seas moaning like a doubt,
    It breathes, but will not blow.

    It sighs from out the helpless past,
    Where doleful things abide;
    Gray ghosts of dead thought sail aghast
    Across its ebbing tide.

    O'er marshy pools it faints and flows,
    All deaf and dumb and blind;
    O'er moor and mountain aimless goes--
    The listless woesome wind!

    Nay, nay!--breathe on, sweet wind of night!
    The sigh is all in me;
    Flow, fan, and blow, with gentle might,
    Until I wake and see.


    II.

    The west is broken into bars
    Of orange, gold, and gray;
    Gone is the sun, fast come the stars,

George MacDonald

Sharing

On the far horizon there
Heaps of cloudy darkness rest;
Though the wind is in the air
There is stupor east and west.

For the sky no change is making,
Scarce we know it from the plain;
Droop its eyelids never waking,
Blinded by the misty rain;

Save on high one little spot,
Round the baffled moon a space
Where the tumult ceaseth not:
Wildly goes the midnight race!

And a joy doth rise in me
Upward gazing on the sight,
When I think that others see
In yon clouds a like delight;

How perchance an aged man
Struggling with the wind and rain,
In the moonlight cold and wan
Feels his heart grow young again;

As the cloudy rack goes by,
How the life-blood mantles up
Till the fountain deep and dry
Yields once m...

George MacDonald

Rest

I.

    When round the earth the Father's hands
        Have gently drawn the dark;
    Sent off the sun to fresher lands,
        And curtained in the lark;
    'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day,
        To fade with fading light,
    And lie once more, the old weary way,
        Upfolded in the night.

    If mothers o'er our slumbers bend,
        And unripe kisses reap,
    In soothing dreams with sleep they blend,
        Till even in dreams we sleep.
    And if we wake while night is dumb,
        'Tis sweet to turn and say,
    It is an hour ere dawning come,
        And I will sleep till day.


II.

    There is a dearer, warmer bed,
        Where one all day may lie,
    Earth's bosom pillowing the hea...

George MacDonald