A Cry

Poem By George MacDonald

Lord, hear my discontent: all blank I stand,
A mirror polished by thy hand;
Thy sun's beams flash and flame from me-
I cannot help it: here I stand, there he!
To one of them I cannot say,
Go, and on yonder water play;
Nor one poor ragged daisy can I fashion-
I do not make the words of this my limping passion!
If I should say, Now I will think a thought,
Lo, I must wait, unknowing
What thought in me is growing,
Until the thing to birth be brought!
Nor know I then what next will come
From out the gulf of silence dumb:
I am the door the thing will find
To pass into the general mind!
I cannot say
I think
-
I only stand upon the thought-well's brink:
From darkness to the sun the water bubbles up-
lift it in my cup.
Thou only thinkest-I am thought;
Me and my thought thou thinkest. Nought
Am I but as a fountain spout
From which thy water welleth out.
Thou art the only one, the all in all.-
Yet when my soul on thee doth call
And thou dost answer out of everywhere,
I in thy allness have my perfect share.

Comments about A Cry

There is no comment submitted by members.


Rating Card

2,8 out of 5
51 total ratings

Other poems of MACDONALD

A Birth-Day Wish

Who know thee, love: thy life be such
That, ere the year be o'er,
Each one who loves thee now so much,
Even God, may love thee more!

A Book Of Strife In The Form Of The Diary Of An Old Soul - April

1.
LORD, I do choose the higher than my will.
I would be handled by thy nursing arms
After thy will, not my infant alarms.

A Book Of Strife In The Form Of The Diary Of An Old Soul - July

1.
ALAS, my tent! see through it a whirlwind sweep!
Moaning, poor Fancy's doves are swept away.
I sit alone, a sorrow half asleep,

A Christmas Carol

Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap,
The sun shone in his hair;
And this was how she saw, mayhap,
The crown already there.

A Better Thing

I took it for a bird of prey that soared
High over ocean, battled mount, and plain;
'Twas but a bird-moth, which with limp horns gored