The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 76

In the white garden lies a heap As brown as deep-dug mould: A hundred partridges that keep Each other from the cold.

My father gives them sheaves of corn, For shelter both and food: High hope in me was early born, My father was so good.

II.

The frost weaves ferns and sultry palms Across my clouded pane; Weaves melodies of ancient psalms All through my pa.s.sive brain.

Quiet ecstasy fills heart and head: My father is in the room; The very curtains of my bed Are from Love's sheltering loom!

The lovely vision melts away; I am a child no more; Work rises from the floor of play; Duty is at the door.

But if I face with courage stout The labour and the din, Thou, Lord, wilt let my mind go out My heart with thee stay in.

III.

Up to my ear my soul doth run-- Her other door is dark; There she can see without the sun, And there she sits to mark.

I hear the dull unheeding wind Mumble o'er heath and wold; My fancy leaves my brain behind, And floats into the cold.

Like a forgotten face that lies One of the speechless crowd, The earth lies spent, with frozen eyes, White-folded in her shroud.

O'er leafless woods and cornless farms, Dead rivers, fireless thorps, I brood, the heart still throbbing warm In Nature's wintered corpse.

IV.

To all the world mine eyes are blind: Their drop serene is--night, With stores of snow piled up the wind An awful airy height.

And yet 'tis but a mote in the eye: The simple faithful stars Beyond are s.h.i.+ning, careless high, Nor heed our storms and jars.

And when o'er storm and jar I climb-- Beyond life's atmosphere, I shall behold the lord of time And s.p.a.ce--of world and year.

Oh vain, far quest!--not thus my heart Shall ever find its goal!

I turn me home--and there thou art, My Father, in my soul!

_SONGS OF THE SPRING DAYS_.

I.

A gentle wind, of western birth On some far summer sea, Wakes daisies in the wintry earth, Wakes hopes in wintry me.

The sun is low; the paths are wet, And dance with frolic hail; The trees--their spring-time is not yet-- Swing sighing in the gale.

Young gleams of suns.h.i.+ne peep and play; Clouds shoulder in between; I scarce believe one coming day The earth will all be green.

The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves, And flaps his snowy wing: Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves; Thou canst not bar our spring.

II.

Up comes the primrose, wondering; The snowdrop droopeth by; The holy spirit of the spring Is working silently.

Soft-breathing breezes woo and wile The later children out; O'er woods and farms a sunny smile Is flickering about.

The earth was cold, hard-hearted, dull; To death almost she slept: Over her, heaven grew beautiful, And forth her beauty crept.

Showers yet must fall, and waters grow Dark-wan with furrowing blast; But suns will s.h.i.+ne, and soft winds blow, Till the year flowers at last.

III.

The sky is smiling over me, Hath smiled away the frost; White daisies star the sky-like lea, With buds the wood's embossed.

Troops of wild flowers gaze at the sky Up through the latticed boughs; Till comes the green cloud by and by, It is not time to house.

Yours is the day, sweet bird--sing on; The winter is forgot; Like an ill dream 'tis over and gone: Pain that is past, is not.

Joy that was past is yet the same: If care the summer brings, 'Twill only be another name For love that broods, not sings.

IV.

Blow on me, wind, from west and south; Sweet summer-spirit, blow!

Come like a kiss from dear child's mouth, Who knows not what I know.

The earth's perfection dawneth soon; Ours lingereth alway; We have a morning, not a noon; Spring, but no summer gay.

Rose-blotted eve, gold-branded morn Crown soon the swift year's life: In us a higher hope is born, And claims a longer strife.

Will heaven be an eternal spring With summer at the door?

Or shall we one day tell its king That we desire no more?

_SONGS OF THE SPRING NIGHTS_.

I.

The flush of green that dyed the day Hath vanished in the moon; Flower-scents float stronger out, and play An unborn, coming tune.