George Macdonald

I HEARD him preach in Oxford years ago,

A snowy-haired and tender-faced apostle.

I watched the beech against the window blow,

And listened to the throstle.

And still a waving branch to memory brings

Those deepset eyes and drooping lids as pressed

Upon too much by earthly visionings

And wistful for their rest.

Still in the flutings of a thrush will sound

Words that upon us then but lightly fell,

Because they were as simple and profound

As some brief parable

Told by the Master to the hungry folk,

While the disciples murmured, but the foam

Wrote it again on Patmos, and it spoke

Above the rage of Rome.