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But now the angels are withdrawn,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

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

Sonnet. To A.M.D.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Were I A Skilful Painter.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

A Christmas Carol For 1862

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Rondel

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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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

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

In The Winter

In the winter, flowers are springing;
In the winter, woods are green,
Where our banished birds are singing,
Where our summer sun is seen!
Our cold midnights are coeval
With an evening and a morn
Where the forest-gods hold revel,
And the spring is newly born!

While the earth is full of fighting,
While men rise and curse their day,
While the foolish strong are smiting,
And the foolish weak betray--
The true hearts beyond are growing,
The brave spirits work alone,
Where Love's summer-wind is blowing
In a truth-irradiate zone!

While we cannot shape our living
To the beauty of our skies,
While man wants and earth is giving--
Nature calls and man denies--
How the old worlds round Him gather
Where their Maker is their sun!
Ho...

George MacDonald

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

God In Growth.

I said, I will arise and work some thing,
Nor be content with growth, but cause to grow
A life around me, clear as yes from no,
That to my restless hand some rest may bring,
And give a vital power to Action's spring:
Thus, I must cease to be! I cried; when, lo!
An angel stood beside me on the snow,
With folded wings that came of pondering.
"God's glory flashes on the silence here
Beneath the moon," he cried, and upward threw
His glorious eyes that swept the utmost blue,
"Ere yet his bounding brooks run forth with cheer
To bear his message to the hidden year
Who cometh up in haste to make his glory new."

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