Up In The Tree

What would you see, if I took you up
My little aerie-stair?
You would see the sky like a clear blue cup
Turned upside down in the air.

What would you do, up my aerie-stair
In my little nest on the tree?
With cry upon cry you would ripple the air
To get at what you would see.

And what would you reach in the top of the tree
To still your grasping grief?
Not a star would you clutch of all you would see,
You would gather just one green leaf.

But when you had lost your greedy grief,
Content to see from afar,
Your hand it would hold a withering leaf,
But your heart a shining star.

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

The Foolish Harebell

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Lost House

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

No End Of No-Story

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Three Horses

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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The Tree's Prayer

Alas, 'tis cold and dark!
The wind all night hath sung a wintry tune!
Hail from black clouds that swallowed up the moon
Beat, beat against my bark.

Oh! why delays the spring?
Not yet the sap moves in my frozen veins;
Through all my stiffened roots creep numbing pains,
That I can hardly cling.

The sun shone yester-morn;
I felt the glow down every fibre float,
And thought I heard a thrush's piping note
Of dim dream-gladness born.

Then, on the salt gale driven,
The streaming cloud hissed through my outstretched arms,
Tossed me about in slanting snowy swarms,
And blotted out the heaven.

All night I brood and choose
Among past joys. Oh, for the breath of June!
The feathery light-flakes quavering from the moon
The slow baptizin...

George MacDonald

Oh That A Wind

Oh that a wind would call
    From the depths of the leafless wood!
Oh that a voice would fall
    On the ear of my solitude!

Far away is the sea,
    With its sound and its spirit tone;
Over it white clouds flee;
    But I am alone, alone.

Straight and steady and tall
    The trees stand on their feet;
Fast by the old stone wall
    The moss grows green and sweet;
But my heart is full of fears,
    For the sun shines far away;
And they look in my face through tears,
    And the light of a dying day.

My heart was glad last night
    As I pressed it with my palm;
Its throb was airy and light
    As it sang some spirit psalm;
But it died away in my breast
    As I wandered forth to-day,--
As a bird sat dead on its ...

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

To My Mother Earth

0 Earth, Earth, Earth,
    I am dying for love of thee,
For thou hast given me birth,
    And thy hands have tended me.

I would fall asleep on thy breast
    When its swelling folds are bare,
When the thrush dreams of its nest
    And the life of its joy in the air;

When thy life is a vanished ghost,
    And the glory hath left thy waves,
When thine eye is blind with frost,
    And the fog sits on the graves;

When the blasts are shivering about,
    And the rain thy branches beats,
When the damps of death are out,
    And the mourners are in the streets.

Oh my sleep should be deep
    In the arms of thy swiftening motion,
And my dirge the mystic sweep
    Of the winds that nurse the ocean.

And my eye would slow...

George MacDonald

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 th...

George MacDonald