A Hidden Life and Other Poems by George MacDonald
page 106 of 339 (31%)
page 106 of 339 (31%)
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Behind me piled, away and upward go
Great sweeps of savage mountains--up, away, Where panthers roam, and snow gleams all the day. II. Ah, God! the world needs many hours to make; Nor hast thou ceased the making of it yet, But wilt be working on when Death hath set A new mound in some churchyard for my sake. On flow the centuries without a break. Uprise the mountains, ages without let. The mosses suck the rock's breast, rarely wet. Years more than past, the young earth yet will take. But in the dumbness of the rolling time, No veil of silence will encompass me-- Thou wilt not once forget, and let me be: I easier think that thou, as I my rhyme, Wouldst rise, and with a tenderness sublime Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see. A GIFT. My gift would find thee fast asleep, And arise a dream in thee; |
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