The poetical works of George MacDonald - LightNovelsOnl.com
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_NOONTIDE HYMN_.
I love thy skies, thy sunny mists, Thy fields, thy mountains h.o.a.r, Thy wind that bloweth where it lists-- Thy will, I love it more.
I love thy hidden truth to seek All round, in sea, on sh.o.r.e; The arts whereby like G.o.ds we speak-- Thy will to me is more.
I love thy men and women, Lord, The children round thy door; Calm thoughts that inward strength afford-- Thy will than these is more.
But when thy will my life doth hold Thine to the very core, The world, which that same will doth mould, I love, then, ten times more!
_EVENING HYMN_.
O G.o.d, whose daylight leadeth down Into the sunless way, Who with restoring sleep dost crown The labour of the day!
What I have done, Lord, make it clean With thy forgiveness dear; That so to-day what might have been, To-morrow may appear.
And when my thought is all astray, Yet think thou on in me; That with the new-born innocent day My soul rise fresh and free.
Nor let me wander all in vain Through dreams that mock and flee; But even in visions of the brain, Go wandering toward thee.
_THE HOLY MIDNIGHT_.
Ah, holy midnight of the soul, When stars alone are high; When winds are resting at their goal, And sea-waves only sigh!
Ambition faints from out the will; Asleep sad longing lies; All hope of good, all fear of ill, All need of action dies;
Because G.o.d is, and claims the life He kindled in thy brain; And thou in him, rapt far from strife, Diest and liv'st again.
_RONDEL_.
I follow, tottering, in the funeral train That bears my body to the welcoming grave.
As those I mourn not, that entomb the brave, But smile as those that lay aside the vain;
To me it is a thing of poor disdain, A clod I would not give a sigh to save!
I follow, careless, in the funeral train, My outworn raiment to the cleansing grave.
I follow to the grave with growing pain-- Then sudden cry: Let Earth take what she gave!
And turn in gladness from the yawning cave-- Glad even for those whose tears yet flow amain: They also follow, in their funeral train, Outworn necessities to the welcoming grave!
_A PRAYER_.
When I look back upon my life nigh spent, Nigh spent, although the stream as yet flows on, I more of follies than of sins repent, Less for offence than Love's shortcomings moan.
With self, O Father, leave me not alone-- Leave not with the beguiler the beguiled; Besmirched and ragged, Lord, take back thine own: A fool I bring thee to be made a child.
_HOME FROM THE WARS_.
A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss, With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee, Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross: I only faced the foe, and did not flee.
_G.o.d; NOT GIFT_.
Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er; My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow; Ghastly and dry, my desert sh.o.r.e Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show.
'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky; Stillest the heart-throb of my sea; Tellest the sad wind not to sigh, Yea, life itself to wait for thee!
Lord, here I am, empty enough!
My music but a soundless moan!
Blind hope, of all my household stuff, Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone!
Shall hope too go, that I may trust Purely in thee, and spite of all?
Then turn my very heart to dust-- On thee, on thee, I yet will call.
List! list! his wind among the pines Hark! hark! that rus.h.i.+ng is his sea's!
O Father, these are but thy signs!-- For thee I hunger, not for these!
Not joy itself, though pure and high-- No gift will do instead of thee!
Let but my spirit know thee nigh, And all the world may sleep for me!
_TO ANY FRIEND_.
