The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2

POEMS FOR CHILDREN

LESSONS FOR A CHILD

I

            There breathes not a breath of the summer air

            But the spirit of love is moving there;

            Not a trembling leaf on the shadowy tree,

            Flutters with hundreds in harmony,

            But that spirit can part its tone from the rest,

            And read the life in its beetle's breast.

            When the sunshiny butterflies come and go,

            Like flowers paying visits to and fro,

            Not a single wave of their fanning wings

            Is unfelt by the spirit that feeleth all things.

            The long-mantled moths that sleep at noon

            And rove in the light of the gentler moon;

            And the myriad gnats that dance like a wall,

            Or a moving column that will not fall;

            And the dragon-flies that go burning by,

            Shot like a glance from a seeking eye—

            There is one being that loves them all:

            Not a fly in a spider's web can fall

            But he cares for the spider, and cares for the fly;

            He cares for you, whether you laugh or cry,

            Cares whether your mother smile or sigh.

            How he cares for so many, I do not know,

            But it would be too strange if he did not so—

            Dreadful and dreary for even a fly:

            So I cannot wait for the

how

 and

why

,

            But believe that all things are gathered and nursed

            In the love of him whose love went first

            And made this world—like a huge great nest

            For a hen to sit on with feathery breast.

II

              The bird on the leafy tree,

              The bird in the cloudy sky,

              The hart in the forest free,

              The stag on the mountain high,

              The fish inside the sea,

              The albatross asleep

              On the outside of the deep,

              The bee through the summer sunny

              Hunting for wells of honey—

              What is the thought in the breast

              Of the little bird in its nest?

              What is the thought in the songs

              The lark in the sky prolongs?

              What mean the dolphin's rays,

              Winding his watery ways?

              What is the thought of the stag,

              Stately on yonder crag?

              What does the albatross think,

              Dreaming upon the brink

              Of the mountain billow, and then

              Dreaming down in its glen?

              What is the thought of the bee

              Fleeting so silently,

              Or flitting—with busy hum,

              But a careless go-and-come—

              From flower-chalice to chalice,

              Like a prince from palace to palace?

              What makes them alive, so very—

              Some of them, surely, merry.

              And others so stately calm

              They might be singing a psalm?

                I cannot tell what they think—-

              Only know they eat and drink,

              And on all that lies about

              With a quiet heart look out,

              Each after its kind, stately or coy,

              Solemn like man, gamesome like boy,

              Glad with its own mysterious joy.

                And God, who knows their thoughts and ways

              Though his the creatures do not know,

              From his full heart fills each of theirs:

              Into them all his breath doth go;

              Good and better with them he shares;

              Content with their bliss while they have no prayers,

              He takes their joy for praise.

                If thou wouldst be like him, little one, go

              And be kind with a kindness undefiled;

              Who gives for the pleasure of thanks, my child,

              God's gladness cannot know.

III

              Root met root in the spongy ground,

                Searching each for food:

              Each turned aside, and away it wound.

                And each got something good.

              Sound met sound in the wavy air—

                That made a little to-do!

              They jostled not long, but were quick and fair;

                Each found its path and flew.

              Drop dashed on drop, as the rain-shower fell;

                They joined and sank below:

              In gathered thousands they rose a well,

                With a singing overflow.

              Wind met wind in a garden green,

                They began to push and fret:

              A tearing whirlwind arose between:

                There love lies bleeding yet.

WHAT MAKES SUMMER?

              Winter froze both brook and well;

            Fast and fast the snowflakes fell;

            Children gathered round the hearth

            Made a summer of their mirth;

            When a boy, so lately come

            That his life was yet one sum

            Of delights—of aimless rambles.

            Romps and dreams and games and gambols,

            Thought aloud: "I wish I knew

            What makes summer—that I do!"

            Father heard, and it did show him

            How to write a little poem.

              What makes summer, little one,

            Do you ask? It is the sun.

            Want of heat is all the harm,

            Summer is but winter warm.

            'Tis the sun—yes, that one there,

            Dim and gray, low in the air!

            Now he looks at us askance,

            But will lift his countenance

            Higher up, and look down straighter.

            Rise much earlier, set much later,

            Till we sing out, "Hail, Well-comer,

            Thou hast brought our own old Summer!"

              When the sun thus rises early

            And keeps shining all day rarely,

            Up he draws the larks to meet him,

            Earth's bird-angels, wild to greet him;

            Up he draws the clouds, and pours

            Down again their shining showers;

            Out he draws the grass and clover,

            Daisies, buttercups all over;

            Out he wiles all flowers to stare

            At their father in the air—

            He all light, they how much duller,

            Yet son-suns of every colour!

            Then he draws their odours out,

            Sends them on the winds about.

            Next he draws out flying things—

            Out of eggs, fast-flapping wings;

            Out of lumps like frozen snails,

            Butterflies with splendid sails;

            Draws the blossoms from the trees,

            From their hives the buzzy bees,

            Golden things from muddy cracks—

            Beetles with their burnished backs;

            Laughter draws he from the river

            Gleaming back to the gleam-giver;

            Light he sends to every nook

            That no creature be forsook;

            Draws from gloom and pain and sadness,

            Hope and blessing, peace and gladness,

            Making man's heart sing and shine

            With his brilliancy divine:

            Summer, thus it is he makes it,

            And the little child he takes it.

              Day's work done, adown the west

            Lingering he goes to rest;

            Like a child, who, blissful yet,

            Is unwilling to forget,

            And, though sleepy, heels and head,

            Thinks he cannot go to bed.

            Even when down behind the hill

            Back his bright look shineth still,

            Whose keen glory with the night

            Makes the lovely gray twilight—

            Drawing out the downy owl,

            With his musical bird-howl;

            Drawing out the leathery bats—

            Mice they are, turned airy cats—

            Noiseless, sly, and slippery things

            Swimming through the air on wings;

            Drawing out the feathery moth,

            Lazy, drowsy, very loath;

            Drawing children to the door

            For one goodnight-frolic more;

            Drawing from the glow-worms' tails

            Glimmers green in grassy dales;

            Making ocean's phosphor-flashes

            Glow as if they were sun-ashes.

              Then the moon comes up the hill,

            Wide awake, but dreaming still,

            Soft and slow, as if in fear

            Lest her path should not be clear.

            Like a timid lady she

            Looks around her daintily,

            Begs the clouds to come about her,

            Tells the stars to shine without her,

            Then unveils, and, bolder grown,

            Climbs the steps of her blue throne:

            Stately in a calm delight,

            Mistress of a whole fair night,

            Lonely but for stars a few,

            There she sits in silence blue,

            And the world before her lies

            Faint, a round shade in the skies!

              But what fun is all about

            When the humans are shut out!

            Shadowy to the moon, the earth

            Is a very world of mirth!

            Night is then a dream opaque

            Full of creatures wide awake!

            Noiseless then, on feet or wings,

            Out they come, all moon-eyed things!

            In and out they pop and play,

            Have it all their own wild way,

            Fly and frolic, scamper, glow;

            Treat the moon, for all her show,

            State, and opal diadem,

            Like a nursemaid watching them.

            And the nightingale doth snare

            All the merry tumult rare,

            All the music and the magic,

            All the comic and the tragic,

            All the wisdom and the riot

            Of the midnight moonlight diet,

            In a diamond hoop of song,

            Which he trundles all night long.

              What doth make the sun, you ask,

            Able for such mighty task?

            He is not a lamp hung high

            Sliding up and down the sky,

            He is carried in a hand:

            That's what makes him strong and grand!

            From that hand comes all his power;

            If it set him down one hour,

            Yea, one moment set him by,

            In that moment he would die,

            And the winter, ice, and snow

            Come on us, and never go.

              Need I tell you whose the hand

            Bears him high o'er sea and land?

MOTHER NATURE

              Beautiful mother is busy all day,

            So busy she neither can sing nor say;

            But lovely thoughts, in a ceaseless flow,

            Through her eyes, and her ears, and her bosom go—

            Motion, sight, and sound, and scent,

            Weaving a royal, rich content.

              When night is come, and her children sleep,

            Beautiful mother her watch doth keep;

            With glowing stars in her dusky hair

            Down she sits to her music rare;

            And her instrument that never fails,

            Is the hearts and the throats of her nightingales.

THE MISTLETOE

              Kiss me: there now, little Neddy,

            Do you see her staring steady?

            There again you had a chance of her!

            Didn't you catch the pretty glance of her?

            See her nest! On any planet

            Never was a sweeter than it!

            Never nest was such as this is:

            Tis the nest of all the kisses,

            With the mother kiss-bird sitting

            All through Christmas, never flitting,

            Kisses, kisses, kisses hatching,

            Sweetest birdies, for the catching!

            Oh, the precious little brood

            Always in a loving mood!—

            There's one under Mamy's hood!

              There, that's one I caught this minute,

            Musical as any linnet!

            Where it is, your big eyes question,

            With of doubt a wee suggestion?

            There it is—upon mouth merry!

            There it is—upon cheek cherry!

            There's another on chin-chinnie!

            Now it's off, and lights on Minnie!

            There's another on nose-nosey!

            There's another on lip-rosy!

            And the kissy-bird is hatching

            Hundreds more for only catching.

              Why the mistletoe she chooses,

            And the Christmas-tree refuses?

            There's a puzzle for your mother?

            I'll present you with another!

            Tell me why, you question-asker,

            Cruel, heartless mother-tasker—

            Why, of all the trees before her,

            Gathered round, or spreading o'er her,

            Jenny Wren should choose the apple

            For her nursery and chapel!

            Or Jack Daw build in the steeple

            High above the praying people!

            Tell me why the limping plover

            O'er moist meadow likes to hover;

            Why the partridge with such trouble

            Builds her nest where soon the stubble

            Will betray her hop-thumb-cheepers

            To the eyes of all the reapers!—

            Tell me, Charley; tell me, Janey;

            Answer all, or answer any,

            And I'll tell you, with much pleasure,

            Why this little bird of treasure

            Nestles only in the mistletoe,

            Never, never goes the thistle to.

              Not an answer? Tell without it?

            Yes—all that I know about it:—

            Mistletoe, then, cannot flourish,

            Cannot find the food to nourish

            But on other plant when planted—

            And for kissing two are wanted.

            That is why the kissy-birdie

            Looks about for oak-tree sturdy

            And the plant that grows upon it

            Like a wax-flower on a bonnet.

              But, my blessed little mannie,

            All the birdies are not cannie

            That the kissy-birdie hatches!

            Some are worthless little patches,

            Which indeed if they don't smutch you,

            'Tis they're dead before they touch you!

            While for kisses vain and greedy,

            Kisses flattering, kisses needy,

            They are birds that never waddled

            Out of eggs that only addled!

            Some there are leave spots behind them,

            On your cheek for years you'd find them:

            Little ones, I do beseech you,

            Never let such birdies reach you.

              It depends what net you venture

            What the sort of bird will enter!

            I will tell you in a minute

            What net takes kiss—lark or linnet—

            Any bird indeed worth hatching

            And just therefore worth the catching:

            The one net that never misses

            Catching at least some true kisses,

            Is the heart that, loving truly,

            Always loves the old love newly;

            But to spread out would undo it—

            Let the birdies fly into it.

PROFESSOR NOCTUTUS

            Nobody knows the world but me.

            The rest go to bed; I sit up and see.

            I'm a better observer than any of you all,

            For I never look out till the twilight fall,

            And never then without green glasses,

            And that is how my wisdom passes.

            I never think, for that is not fit:

I observe.

 I have seen the white moon sit

            On her nest, the sea, like a fluffy owl,

            Hatching the boats and the long-legged fowl!

            When the oysters gape—you may make a note—

            She drops a pearl into every throat.

            I can see the wind: can you do that?

            I see the dreams he has in his hat,

            I see him shaking them out as he goes,

            I see them rush in at man's snoring nose.

            Ten thousand things you could not think,

            I can write down plain with pen and ink!

            You know that I know; therefore pull off your hat,

            Whether round and tall, or square and flat:

            You cannot do better than trust in me;

            You may shut your eyes in fact—

I

 see!

            Lifelong I will lead you, and then, like the owl,

            I will bury you nicely with my spade and showl.

BIRD-SONGS

            I will sing a song,

              Said the owl.

            You sing a song, sing-song

              Ugly fowl!

            What will you sing about,

            Night in and day out?

            All about the night,

              When the gray

            With her cloak smothers bright,

              Hard, sharp day.

            Oh, the moon! the cool dew!

            And the shadows!—tu-whoo!

            I will sing a song,

              Said the nightingale.

            Sing a song, long, long,

              Little Neverfail!

            What will you sing about,

            Day in or day out?

            All about the light

              Gone away,

            Down, away, and out of sight:

              Wake up, day!

            For the master is not dead,

            Only gone to bed.

            I will sing a song,

              Said the lark.

            Sing, sing, Throat-strong,

              Little Kill-the-dark!

            What will you sing about,

            Day in and night out?

            I can only call!

              I can't think!

            Let me up, that's all!

              I see a chink!

            I've been thirsting all night

            For the glorious light!

RIDDLES

I

            I have only one foot, but thousands of toes;

            My one foot stands well, but never goes;

            I've a good many arms, if you count them all,

            But hundreds of fingers, large and small;

            From the ends of my fingers my beauty grows;

            I breathe with my hair, and I drink with my toes;

            I grow bigger and bigger about the waist

            Although I am always very tight laced;

            None e'er saw me eat—I've no mouth to bite!

            Yet I eat all day, and digest all night.

            In the summer, with song I shake and quiver,

            But in winter I fast and groan and shiver.

II

            There is a plough that hath no share,

            Only a coulter that parteth fair;

              But the ridges they rise

              To a terrible size

            Or ever the coulter comes near to tear:

            The horses and ridges fierce battle make;

            The horses are safe, but the plough may break.

            Seed cast in its furrows, or green or sear,

            Will lift to the sun neither blade nor ear:

              Down it drops plumb

              Where no spring-times come,

            Nor needeth it any harrowing gear;

            Wheat nor poppy nor blade has been found

            Able to grow on the naked ground.

FOR MY GRANDCHILD

III