The poetical works of George MacDonald - BestLightNovel.com
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We, of the splendour drinking, Shall grow to stars of light.
Lost, lost are all our losses!
Love is for ever free!
The full life heaves and tosses Like an unbounded sea!
One live, eternal story!
One poem high and broad!
And sun of all our glory The countenance of G.o.d!
_WHAT MAN IS THERE OF YOU?_
The homely words how often read!
How seldom fully known!
"Which father of you, asked for bread, Would give his son a stone?"
How oft has bitter tear been shed, And heaved how many a groan, Because thou wouldst not give for bread The thing that was a stone!
How oft the child thou wouldst have fed, Thy gift away has thrown!
He prayed, thou heard'st, and gav'st the bread: He cried, "It is a stone!"
Lord, if I ask in doubt and dread Lest I be left to moan, Am I not he who, asked for bread, Would give his son a stone?
_O WIND OF G.o.d._
O wind of G.o.d, that blowest in the mind, Blow, blow and wake the gentle spring in me; Blow, swifter blow, a strong warm summer wind, Till all the flowers with eyes come out to see; Blow till the fruit hangs red on every tree, And our high-soaring song-larks meet thy dove-- High the imperfect soars, descends the perfect love!
Blow not the less though winter cometh then; Blow, wind of G.o.d, blow hither changes keen; Let the spring creep into the ground again, The flowers close all their eyes and not be seen: All lives in thee that ever once hath been!
Blow, fill my upper air with icy storms; Breathe cold, O wind of G.o.d, and kill my cankerworms.
_SHALL THE DEAD PRAISE THEE?_
I cannot praise thee. By his instrument The master sits, and moves nor foot nor hand; For see the organ-pipes this, that way bent, Leaning, o'erthrown, like wheat-stalks tempest-fanned!
I well could praise thee for a flower, a dove, But not for life that is not life in me; Not for a being that is less than love-- A barren shoal half lifted from a sea!
Unto a land where no wind bloweth s.h.i.+ps Thy wind one day will blow me to my own: Rather I'd kiss no more their loving lips Than carry them a heart so poor and p.r.o.ne!
I bless thee, Father, thou art what thou art, That thou dost know thyself what thou dost know-- A perfect, simple, tender, rhythmic heart, Beating its blood to all in bounteous flow.
And I can bless thee too for every smart, For every disappointment, ache, and fear; For every hook thou fixest in my heart, For every burning cord that draws me near.
But prayer these wake, not song. Thyself I crave.
Come thou, or all thy gifts away I fling.
Thou silent, I am but an empty grave: Think to me, Father, and I am a king!
My organ-pipes will then stand up awake, Their life soar, as from smouldering wood the blaze; And swift contending harmonies shall shake Thy windows with a storm of jubilant praise.
_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 gra.s.s is fine, And soft to lie in: The sun doth s.h.i.+ne The blue sky in: _Heart, be alive; Let the new things thrive._
Round again!
Here art thou, A rimy fruit On a bare bough!
Winter comes, Winter and snow; And a weary sighing To fall and go!
_Heart, thy hour shall be; Thy dead will comfort thee._
_SONG_.
Why do the houses stand When they that built them are gone; When remaineth even of one That lived there and loved and planned Not a face, not an eye, not a hand, Only here and there a bone?
Why do the houses stand When they who built them are gone?
Oft in the moonlighted land When the day is overblown, With happy memorial moan Sweet ghosts in a loving band Roam through the houses that stand-- For the builders are not gone.
_FOR WHERE YOUR TREASURE IS, THERE WILL YOUR HEART BE ALSO._
The miser lay on his lonely bed; Life's candle was burning dim.
His heart in an iron chest was hid Under heaps of gold and an iron lid; And whether it were alive or dead It never troubled him.
Slowly out of his body he crept.
He said, "I am just the same!
Only I want my heart in my breast; I will go and fetch it out of my chest!"
Through the dark a darker shadow he leapt, Saying "h.e.l.l is a fabled flame!"
He opened the lid. Oh, h.e.l.l's own night!
His ghost-eyes saw no gold!-- Empty and swept! Not a gleam was there!
In goes his hand, but the chest is bare!
Ghost-fingers, aha! have only might To close, not to clasp and hold!
But his heart he saw, and he made a clutch At the fungous puff-ball of sin: Eaten with moths, and fretted with rust, He grasped a handful of rotten dust, And shrieked, as ghosts may, at the crumbling touch, But hid it his breast within.
