The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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III.

Yet

not in vain dost thou unroll The stars, the world, the seas--

A mighty, wonder-painted scroll

Of Patmos mysteries,

Thou mediator 'twixt my soul

And higher things than these!

Thy

holy ephod bound on me, I pass into a seer;

For

still in things thou mak'st me see, The unseen grows more clear;

Still their indwelling Deity

Speaks plainer in mine ear.

Divinely taught the craftsman is

Who waketh wonderings;

Whose web, the nursing chrysalis

Round Psyche's folded wings,

To them transfers the loveliness

Of its inwoven things.

Yet

joy when thou shalt cease to beat!-- For a greater heart beats on,

Whose better texture follows fleet

On thy last thread outrun,

With a seamless-woven garment, meet

To clothe a death-born son.

THE FLOWER-ANGELS.

Of old, with goodwill from the skies--

God's message to them given--

The angels came, a glad surprise,

And went again to heaven.

But now the angels are grown rare,

Needed no more as then;

Far lowlier messengers can bear

God's goodwill unto men.

Each year, the snowdrops' pallid dawn

Breaks from the earth below;

Light spreads, till, from the dark updrawn,

The noontide roses glow.

The snowdrops first--the dawning gray;

Then out the roses burn!

They speak their word, grow dim--away

To holy dust return.

Of oracles were little dearth,

Should heaven continue dumb;

From lowliest corners of the earth

God's messages will come.

In thy face his we see, O Lord,

And are no longer blind;

Need not so much his rarer word,

In flowers even read his mind.

TO MY SISTER,

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