Who Lights The Fire?

Who lights the fire--that forth so gracefully
    And freely frolicketh the fairy smoke?
    Some pretty one who never felt the yoke--
Glad girl, or maiden more sedate than she.

Pedant it cannot, villain cannot be!
    Some genius, may-be, his own symbol woke;
    But puritan, nor rogue in virtue's cloke,
Nor kitchen-maid has done it certainly!

Ha, ha! you cannot find the lighter out
    For all the blue smoke's pantomimic gesture--
    His name or nature, sex or age or vesture!
The fire was lit by human care, no doubt--
    But now the smoke is Nature's tributary,
    Dancing 'twixt man and nothing like a fairy.

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

A Winter Prayer.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Hope And Patience

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

My Two Geniuses

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Pinafore

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Smoke

Lord, I have laid my heart upon thy altar
    But cannot get the wood to burn;
It hardly flares ere it begins to falter
    And to the dark return.

Old sap, or night-fallen dew, makes damp the fuel;
    In vain my breath would flame provoke;
Yet see--at every poor attempt's renewal
    To thee ascends the smoke!

'Tis all I have--smoke, failure, foiled endeavour,
    Coldness and doubt and palsied lack:
Such as I have I send thee!--perfect Giver,
    Send thou thy lightning back.

George MacDonald

Let Your Light So Shine.

Sometimes, O Lord, thou lightest in my head
    A lamp that well might pharos all the lands;
Anon the light will neither rise nor spread:
    Shrouded in danger gray the beacon stands!

A pharos? Oh dull brain! poor dying lamp
    Under a bushel with an earthy smell!
Mouldering it stands, in rust and eating damp,
    While the slow oil keeps oozing from its cell!

For me it were enough to be a flower
    Knowing its root in thee, the Living, hid,
Ordained to blossom at the appointed hour,
    And wake or sleep as thou, my Nature, bid;

But hear my brethren in their darkling fright!
    Hearten my lamp that it may shine abroad
Then will they cry--Lo, there is something bright!
    Who kindled it if not the shining God?

George MacDonald

The Sylph's Ball.

A sylph, as bright as ever sported
    Her figure thro' the fields of air,
By an old swarthy Gnome was courted.
    And, strange to say, he won the fair.

The annals of the oldest witch
    A pair so sorted could not show,
But how refuse?--the Gnome was rich,
    The Rothschild of the world below;

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,
    Are told, betimes, they must consider
Love as an auctioneer of features,
    Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

Home she was taken to his Mine--
    A Palace paved with diamonds all--
And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine,
    Sent out her tickets for a ball.

The lower world of course was there,
    And all the best; but of the upper
The sprinkling was but shy and rare,--

Thomas Moore

When Prometheus Stole The Flame.

[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]

        When Prometheus stole the flame,
        Did he know what with it came?
        Did he look afar and see
        All the blessings that would be?
        Could he view the gentle gloam
        Of the fireside of a home?
        Or the centre-table's blaze,
        Turning evenings into days,
        Where, encamped with quiet zest,
        Happy children toil and rest?
        Did he view the parlor's gleam,
        Or the 'wildering palace dream?
        See the torch's floating glare
        Burn its way through walls of air;
        Or, through under-regions trace
        Earth's remotest hiding-place?
        Did he see the flags of steam
        O'er the cities flash and gleam?
        ...

William McKendree Carleton

What Makes Summer?

    Winter froze both brook and well;
Fast and fast the snowflakes fell;
Children gathered round the hearth
Made a summer of their mirth;
When a boy, so lately come
That his life was yet one sum
Of delights--of aimless rambles.
Romps and dreams and games and gambols,
Thought aloud: "I wish I knew
What makes summer--that I do!"
Father heard, and it did show him
How to write a little poem.

    What makes summer, little one,
Do you ask? It is the sun.
Want of heat is all the harm,
Summer is but winter warm.
'Tis the sun--yes, that one there,
Dim and gray, low in the air!
Now he looks at us askance,
But will lift his countenance
Higher up, and look down straighter.
Rise much earlier, set much later,
Till we sing out, "Hail, Well...

George MacDonald

Words In The Night

I woke at midnight, and my heart,
My beating heart, said this to me:
Thou seest the moon, how calm and bright!
The world is fair by day and night,
But what is that to thee?
One touch to me, down dips the light
Over the land and sea.
All is mine, all is my own!
Toss the purple fountain high!
The breast of man is a vat of stone;
I am alive, I, only I!

One little touch and all is dark--
The winter with its sparkling moons,
The spring with all her violets,
The crimson dawns and rich sunsets,
The autumn's yellowing noons!
I only toss my purple jets,
And thou art one that swoons
Upon a night of gust and roar,
Shipwrecked among the waves, and seems
Across the purple hills to roam:
Sweet odours touch him from the foam,
And downward ...

George MacDonald