To A.J. Scott.

Thus, once, long since, the daring of my youth
Drew nigh thy greatness with a little thing;
And thou didst take me in: thy home of truth

Has domed me since, a heaven of sheltering,
Uplighted by the tenderness and grace
Which round thy absolute friendship ever fling

A radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy face
From that small part of earnest thanks, I pray,
Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case.

I saw thee as a strong man on his way!
Up the great peaks: I know thee stronger still;
Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway,

Upheld and ordered by a regnant will;
While Wisdom, seer and priest of holy Fate,
Searches all truths, its prophecy to fill:

Yet, O my friend, throned in thy heart so great,
High Love is queen, and hath no equal mate.

    May, 1857.

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

Christmas Song Of The Old Children

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Lessons For A Child

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Evening Hymn

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Sun And Moon.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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To A. J. Scott

    When, long ago, the daring of my youth
    Drew nigh thy greatness with a little thing,
    Thou didst receive me; and thy sky of truth

    Has domed me since, a heaven of sheltering,
    Made homely by the tenderness and grace
    Which round thy absolute friendship ever fling

    A radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy face
    From that small part of earnest thanks, I pray,
    Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case.

    I see thee far before me on thy way
    Up the great peaks, and striding stronger still;
    Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway,

    Upheld and ordered by a regnant will;
    Thy wisdom, seer and priest of holy fate,
    Searching all truths its prophecy to fill;

    But this my joy: throned in thy hear...

George MacDonald

Of The Son Of Man

I. I honour Nature, holding it unjust
To look with jealousy on her designs;
With every passing year more fast she twines
About my heart; with her mysterious dust
Claim I a fellowship not less august
Although she works before me and combines
Her changing forms, wherever the sun shines
Spreading a leafy volume on the crust
Of the old world; and man himself likewise
Is of her making: wherefore then divorce
What God hath joined thus, and rend by force
Spirit away from substance, bursting ties
By which in one great bond of unity
God hath together bound all things that be?

II. And in these lines my purpose is to show
That He who left the Father, though he came
Not with art-splendour or the earthly flame
Of genius, yet in that he did bestow
His own tr...

George MacDonald

To My Father.

I.

Take of the first fruits, Father, of thy care,
    Wrapped in the fresh leaves of my gratitude
    Late waked for early gifts ill understood;
Claiming in all my harvests rightful share,
Whether with song that mounts the joyful air
    I praise my God; or, in yet deeper mood,
    Sit dumb because I know a speechless good,
Needing no voice, but all the soul for prayer.
    Thou hast been faithful to my highest need;
And I, thy debtor, ever, evermore,
Shall never feel the grateful burden sore.
    Yet most I thank thee, not for any deed,
    But for the sense thy living self did breed
That fatherhood is at the great world's core.


II.

All childhood, reverence clothed thee, undefined,
    As for some being of another race;
    A...

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

The Diary Of An Old Soul. - October.

        1.

        REMEMBER, Lord, thou hast not made me good.
        Or if thou didst, it was so long ago
        I have forgotten--and never understood,
        I humbly think. At best it was a crude,
        A rough-hewn goodness, that did need this woe,
        This sin, these harms of all kinds fierce and rude,
        To shape it out, making it live and grow.

        2.

        But thou art making me, I thank thee, sire.
        What thou hast done and doest thou know'st well,
        And I will help thee:--gently in thy fire
        I will lie burning; on thy potter's-wheel
        I will whirl patient, though my brain should reel;
        Thy grace shall be enough the grief to quell,
        And growing strength perfect through weakness d...

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