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The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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stood before my childhood's home, Outside its belt of trees;

All round my glances flit and roam

O'er well-known hills and leas;

When sudden rushed across the plain

A host of hurrying waves,

Loosed by some witchery of the brain

From far, dream-hidden caves.

And up the hill they clomb and came,

A wild, fast-flowing sea:

Careless I looked as on a game;

No terror woke in me.

For, just the belting trees within,

I saw my father wait;

And should the waves the summit win,

There was the open gate!

With him beside, all doubt was dumb;

There let the waters foam!

No mightiest flood would dare to come

And drown his holy home!

Two days passed by. With restless toss,

The red flood brake its doors;

Prostrate I lay, and looked across

To the eternal shores.

The world was fair, and hope was high;

My friends had all been true;

Life burned in me, and Death and I

Would have a hard ado.

Sudden came back the dream so good,

My trouble to abate:

At his own door my Father stood--

I just without the gate!

"Thou know'st what is, and what appears,"

I said; "mine eyes to thine

Are windows; thou hear'st with thine ears,

But also hear'st with mine:"

"Thou knowest my weak soul's dismay,

How trembles my life's node;

Thou art the potter, I am the clay--

'Tis thine to bear the load."

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