The New Year

Be welcome, year! with corn and sickle come;
    Make poor the body, but make rich the heart:
What man that bears his sheaves, gold-nodding, home,
    Will heed the paint rubbed from his groaning cart!

Nor leave behind thy fears and holy shames,
    Thy sorrows on the horizon hanging low--
Gray gathered fuel for the sunset-flames
    When joyous in death's harvest-home we go.

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

Song Of The Saints And Angels

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Legend Of The Corrievrechan

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Doubt Heralding Vision.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Thy Heart

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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A Year Song.

Sighing above,
    Rustling below,
Thorough the woods
    The winds go.
Beneath, dead crowds;
    Above, life bare;
And the besom tempest
    Sweeps the air:
Heart, leave thy woe:
Let the dead things go.

Through the brown
    Gold doth push;
Misty green
    Veils the bush.
Here a twitter,
    There a croak!
They are coming--
    The spring-folk!
Heart, be not numb;
Let the live things come.

Through the beech
    The winds go,
With gentle speech,
    Long and slow.
The grass is fine,
    And soft to lie in:
The sun doth shine
    The blue sky in:
Heart, be alive;
Let the new things thrive.

Round again!
    Here art thou,
A rimy fruit
    O...

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

A Song For Christmas

    Hark, in the steeple the dull bell swinging
        Over the furrows ill ploughed by Death!
    Hark the bird-babble, the loud lark singing!
        Hark, from the sky, what the prophet saith!

    Hark, in the pines, the free Wind, complaining--
        Moaning, and murmuring, "Life is bare!"
    Hark, in the organ, the caught Wind, outstraining,
        Jubilant rise in a soaring prayer!

    Toll for the burying, sexton tolling!
        Sing for the second birth, angel Lark!
    Moan, ye poor Pines, with the Past condoling!
        Burst out, brave Organ, and kill the Dark!


II.

    Sit on the ground, and immure thy sorrow;
        I will give freedom to mine in song!
    Haunt thou the tomb, and deny the morrow;
        I wil...

George MacDonald

With A Copy Of "In Memoriam."

            TO E.M. II.

Dear friend, you love the poet's song,
    And here is one for your regard.
    You know the "melancholy bard,"
Whose grief is wise as well as strong;

Already something understand
    For whom he mourns and what he sings,
    And how he wakes with golden strings
The echoes of "the silent land;"

How, restless, faint, and worn with grief,
    Yet loving all and hoping all,
    He gazes where the shadows fall,
And finds in darkness some relief;

And how he sends his cries across,
    His cries for him that comes no more,
    Till one might think that silent shore
Full of the burden of his loss;

And how there comes sublimer cheer--
    Not darkness solacing sad eyes,
    Not the wild joy of mournf...

George MacDonald

Death

    Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old:
    A fresher birth brings every new year in.
    Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin.
    See now, I'll be to you an angel bold!
    My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold,
    Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin.
    --Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win!
    Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:--
    Behind me comes a shining one indeed;
    Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down,
    And set upon his day night's starry crown!
    Death, say'st thou? Nay--thine be no caitiff creed!--
    A woman-angel! see--in long white gown!
    The mother of our youth!--she maketh speed.

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