The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes - Volume 1 by George MacDonald (finding audrey .txt) 📖

and revealing,
Teach us anew
To sing true.


SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS.


SONGS OF THE SUMMER DAYS .


I.

A glory on the chamber wall!
A glory in the brain!
Triumphant floods of glory fall
On heath, and wold, and plain.

Earth lieth still in hopeless bliss;
She has, and seeks no more;
Forgets that days come after this,
Forgets the days before.

Each ripple waves a flickering fire
Of gladness, as it runs;
They laugh and flash, and leap and spire,
And toss ten thousand suns.

But hark! low, in the world within,
One sad aeolian tone:
"Ah! shall we ever, ever win
A summer of our own?"


II.

A morn of winds and swaying trees-
Earth's jubilance rushing out!
The birds are fighting with the breeze;
The waters heave about.

White clouds are swept across the sky,
Their shadows o'er the graves;
Purpling the green, they float and fly
Athwart the sunny waves.

The long grass-an earth-rooted sea-
Mimics the watery strife.
To boat or horse? Wild motion we
Shall find harmonious life.

But whither? Roll and sweep and bend
Suffice for Nature's part;
But motion to an endless end
Is needful for our heart.


III.

The morn awakes like brooding dove,
With outspread wings of gray;
Her feathery clouds close in above,
And roof a sober day.

No motion in the deeps of air!
No trembling in the leaves!
A still contentment everywhere,
That neither laughs nor grieves!

A film of sheeted silver gray
Shuts in the ocean's hue;
White-winged feluccas cleave their way
In paths of gorgeous blue.

Dream on, dream on, O dreamy day,
Thy very clouds are dreams!
Yon child is dreaming far away-
He is not where he seems.

IV.

The lark is up, his faith is strong,
He mounts the morning air;
Lone voice of all the creature throng,
He sings the morning prayer.

Slow clouds from north and south appear,
Black-based, with shining slope;
In sullen forms their might they rear,
And climb the vaulted cope.

A lightning flash, a thunder boom!-
Nor sun nor clouds are there;
A single, all-pervading gloom
Hangs in the heavy air.

A weeping, wasting afternoon
Weighs down the aspiring corn;
Amber and red, the sunset soon
Leads back to golden morn.


SONGS OF THE SUMMER NIGHTS .


I.

The dreary wind of night is out,
Homeless and wandering slow;
O'er pale seas moaning like a doubt,
It breathes, but will not blow.

It sighs from out the helpless past,
Where doleful things abide;
Gray ghosts of dead thought sail aghast
Across its ebbing tide.

O'er marshy pools it faints and flows,
All deaf and dumb and blind;
O'er moor and mountain aimless goes-
The listless woesome wind!

Nay, nay!-breathe on, sweet wind of night!
The sigh is all in me;
Flow, fan, and blow, with gentle might,
Until I wake and see.


II.

The west is broken into bars
Of orange, gold, and gray;
Gone is the sun, fast come the stars,
And night infolds the day.

My boat glides with the gliding stream,
Following adown its breast
One flowing mirrored amber gleam,
The death-smile of the west.

The river moves; the sky is still,
No ceaseless quest it knows:
Thy bosom swells, thy fair eyes fill
At sight of its repose.

The ripples run; all patient sit
The stars above the night.
In shade and gleam the waters flit:
The heavens are changeless bright!


III.

Alone I lie, buried amid
The long luxurious grass;
The bats flit round me, born and hid
In twilight's wavering mass.

The fir-top floats, an airy isle,
High o'er the mossy ground;
Harmonious silence breathes the while
In scent instead of sound.

The flaming rose glooms swarthy red;
The borage gleams more blue;
Dim-starred with white, a flowery bed
Glimmers the rich dusk through.

Hid in the summer grass I lie,
Lost in the great blue cave;
My body gazes at the sky,
And measures out its grave.


IV.

What art thou, gathering dusky cool,
In slow gradation fine?
Death's lovely shadow, flickering full
Of eyes about to shine.

When weary Day goes down below,
Thou leanest o'er his grave,
Revolving all the vanished show
The gracious splendour gave.

Or art thou not she rather-say-
Dark-browed, with luminous eyes,
Of whom is born the mighty Day,
That fights and saves and dies?

For action sleeps with sleeping light;
Calm thought awakes with thee:
The soul is then a summer night,
With stars that shine and see.


SONGS OF THE AUTUMN DAYS .


I.

We bore him through the golden land,
One early harvest morn;
The corn stood ripe on either hand-
He knew all about the corn.

How shall the harvest gathered be
Without him standing by?
Without him walking on the lea,
The sky is scarce a sky.

The year's glad work is almost done;
The land is rich in fruit;
Yellow it floats in air and sun-
Earth holds it by the root.

Why should earth hold it for a day
When harvest-time is come?
Death is triumphant o'er decay,
And leads the ripened home.


II.

And though the sun be not so warm,
His shining is not lost;
Both corn and hope, of heart and farm,
Lie hid from coming frost.

The sombre woods are richly sad,
Their leaves are red and gold:
Are thoughts in solemn splendour clad
Signs that we men grow old?

Strange odours haunt the doubtful brain
From fields and days gone by;
And mournful memories again
Are born, are loved, and die.

The mornings clear, the evenings cool
Foretell no wintry wars;
The day of dying leaves is full,
The night of glowing stars.


III.

'Tis late before the sun will rise,
And early he will go;
Gray fringes hang from the gray skies,
And wet the ground below.

Red fruit has followed golden corn;
The leaves are few and sere;
My thoughts are old as soon as born,
And chill with coming fear.

The winds lie sick; no softest breath
Floats through the branches bare;
A silence as of coming death
Is growing in the air.

But what must fade can bear to fade-
Was born to meet the ill:
Creep on, old Winter, deathly shade!
We sorrow, and are still.


IV.

There is no longer any heaven
To glorify our clouds;
The rising vapours downward driven
Come home in palls and shrouds.

The sun himself is ill bested
A heavenly sign to show;
His radiance, dimmed to glowing red,
Can hardly further go.

An earthy damp, a churchyard gloom,
Pervade the moveless air;
The year is sinking to its tomb,
And death is everywhere.

But while sad thoughts together creep,
Like bees too cold to sting,
God's children, in their beds asleep,
Are dreaming of the spring.


SONGS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHTS .


I.

O night, send up the harvest moon
To walk about the fields,
And make of midnight magic noon
On lonely tarns and wealds.

In golden ranks, with golden crowns,
All in the yellow land,
Old solemn kings in rustling gowns,
The shocks moon-charmed stand.

Sky-mirror she, afloat in space,
Beholds our coming morn:
Her heavenly joy hath such a grace,
It ripens earthly corn;

Like some lone saint with upward eyes,
Lost in the deeps of prayer:
The people still their prayers and sighs,
And gazing ripen there.

II.

So, like the corn moon-ripened last,
Would I, weary and gray,
On golden memories ripen fast,