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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2
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"Love, the holy,"
Sang a music in her dome,
Sang it softly, sang it slowly,
"Love is coming home!"
THE LARK AND THE WIND
In the air why such a ringing?
On the earth why such a droning?
In the air the lark is singing;
On the earth the wind is moaning.
"I am blest, in sunlight swinging!"
"Sad am I: the world lies groaning!"
In the sky the lark kept singing;
On the earth the wind kept moaning.
A DEAD HOUSE
When the clock hath ceased to tick
Soul-like in the gloomy hall;
When the latch no more doth click
Tongue-like in the red peach-wall;
When no more come sounds of play,
Mice nor children romping roam,
Then looks down the eye of day
On a dead house, not a home!
But when, like an old sun's ghost,
Haunts her vault the spectral moon;
When earth's margins all are lost,
Melting shapes nigh merged in swoon,
Then a sound—hark! there again!—
No, 'tis not a nibbling mouse!
'Tis a ghost, unseen of men,
Walking through the bare-floored house!
And with lightning on the stair
To that silent upper room,
With the thunder-shaken air
Sudden gleaming into gloom,
With a frost-wind whistling round,
From the raging northern coasts,
Then, mid sieging light and sound,
All the house is live with ghosts!
Brother, is thy soul a cell
Empty save of glittering motes,
Where no live loves live and dwell,
Only notions, things, and thoughts?
Then thou wilt, when comes a Breath
Tempest-shaking ridge and post,
Find thyself alone with Death
In a house where walks no ghost.
'BELL UPON ORGAN
It's all very well,
Said the Bell,
To be the big Organ below!
But the folk come and go,
Said the Bell,
And you never can tell
What sort of person the Organ will blow!
And, besides, it is much at the mercy of the weather
For 'tis all made in pieces and glued together!
But up in my cell
Next door to the sky,
Said the Bell,
I dwell
Very high;
And with glorious go
I swing to and fro;
I swing swift or slow,
I swing as I please,
With summons or knell;
I swing at my ease,
Said the Bell:
Not the tallest of men
Can reach up to touch me,
To smirch me or smutch me,
Or make me do what
I would not be at!
And, then,
The weather can't cause me to shrink or increase:
I chose to be made in one perfect piece!
MASTER AND BOY
"WHO is this little one lying,"
Said Time, "at my garden-gate,
Moaning and sobbing and crying,
Out in the cold so late?"
"They lurked until we came near,
Master and I," the child said,
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