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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2
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It left her with the lost things
Her heart had still been craving;
'Mong them she found—why, most things,
And all things worth the saving.
She found her precious mother,
Who not the least had died;
And then she found that other
Whose heart had hers inside.
And next she found the kiss
She lost upon the stair;
'Twas sweeter far, I guess,
For ripening in that air.
She found her self, all mended,
New-drest, and strong, and white;
She found her health, new-blended
With a radiant delight.
She found her little robin:
He made his wings go flap,
Came fluttering, and went bob in,
Went bob into her lap.
So, girls that cannot keep things,
Be patient till to-morrow;
And mind you don't beweep things
That are not worth such sorrow;
For the Father great of fathers,
Of mothers, girls, and boys,
In his arms his children gathers,
And sees to all their toys.
A MAKE-BELIEVE
I will think as thinks the rabbit:—
Oh, delight
In the night
When the moon
Sets the tune
To the woods!
And the broods
All run out,
Frisk about,
Go and come,
Beat the drum—
Here in groups,
There in troops!
Now there's one!
Now it's gone!
There are none!
And now they are dancing like chaff!
I look, and I laugh,
But sit by my door, and keep to my habit—
A wise, respectable, clean-furred old rabbit!
Now I'm going,
Business calls me out—
Going, going,
Very knowing,
Slow, long-heeled, and stout,
Loping, lumbering,
Nipping, numbering,
Head on this side and on that,
Along the pathway footed flat,
Through the meadow, through the heather,
Through the rich dusky weather—
Big stars and little moon!
Dews are lighting down in crowds,
Odours rising in thin clouds,
Night has all her chords in tune—
The very night for us, God's rabbits,
Suiting all our little habits!
Wind not loud, but playful with our fur,
Just a cool, a sweet, a gentle stir!
And all the way not one rough bur,
But the dewiest, freshest grasses,
That whisper thanks to every foot that passes!
I, the king the rest call Mappy,
Canter on, composed and happy,
Till I come where there is plenty
For a varied meal and dainty.
Is it cabbage, I grab it;
Is it parsley, I nab it;
Is it carrot, I mar it;
The turnip I turn up
And hollow and swallow;
A lettuce? Let us eat it!
A beetroot? Let's beat it!
If you are juicy,
Sweet sir, I will use you!
For all kinds of corn-crop
I have a born crop!
Are you a green top?
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