The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 1. George MacDonald

        Julian.

        Ay! What of her?

        Robert.

        I heard no more than so; and that you came

        To seek the next best service you could find:

        Turned from the lady's door, and knocked at God's.

        Julian.

        One part at least is true: I knock at God's;

        He has not yet been pleased to let me in.

        As for the lady—that is—so far true,

        But matters little. Had I less to think,

        This talking might annoy me; as it is,

        Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it;

        I keep in-doors.

        Robert.

        Gloomy as usual, brother!

        Brooding on fancy's eggs. God did not send

        The light that all day long gladdened the earth,

        Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire

        Transformed the weathercock into a star,

        That you should gloom within stone walls all day.

        At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come:

        We will salute the breezes, as they rise

        And leave their lofty beds, laden with odours

        Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss—

        Imprisoned spirits, which life-waking Spring

        Lets forth in vapour through the genial air.

        Come, we will see the sunrise; watch the light

        Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak,

        And thence descend triumphant, step by step,

        The stairway of the hills. Free air and action

        Will soon dispel these vapours of the brain.

        Julian.

        My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy,

        "There is your father's house: go in and rest;"

        Through every open room the child would pass,

        Timidly looking for the friendly eye;

        Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder

        At what he saw, until he found his sire;

        But gathered to his bosom, straight he is

        The heir of all; he knows it 'mid his tears.

        And so with me: not having seen Him yet,

        The light rests on me with a heaviness;

        All beauty wears to me a doubtful look;

        A voice is in the wind I do not know;

        A meaning on the face of the high hills

        Whose utterance I cannot comprehend.

        A something is behind them: that is God.

        These are his words, I doubt not, language strange;

        These are the expressions of his shining thoughts;

        And he is present, but I find him not.

        I have not yet been held close to his heart.

        Once in his inner room, and by his eyes

        Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these,

        'Mid sights familiar as a mother's smiles,

        And sounds that never lose love's mystery.

        Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him.

        Robert

         (pointing to the Crucifix in a recess). See, there

          is God revealed in human form!

        Julian (kneeling and crossing).

        Alas, my friend!—revealed—but as in nature:

        I see the man; I cannot find the God.

        I know his voice is in the wind, his presence

        Is in the Christ. The wind blows where it listeth;

        And there stands Manhood: and the God is there,

        Not here, not here!