When We Are at Home
Gloriously wasteful, O my Lord, art thou!
Sunset faints after sunset into the night,
Splendorously dying from thy window sill—
For ever. Sad our poverty doth bow
Before the riches of thy making might:
Sweep from thy space thy systems at thy will—
In thee the sun sets every sunset still.
And in the perfect time, O perfect God,
When we are in our home, our natal home,
When joy shall carry every sacred load,
And from its life and peace no heart shall roam,
What if thou make us able to make like thee—
To light with moons, to clothe with greenery,
To hang gold sunsets o’er a rose and purple sea!
Then to his neighbor one may call out, “Come,
Brother, come hither—I would show you a thing”;
And lo, a vision of his imagining,
Informed of thought which else had rested dumb,
Before the neighbor’s truth-delighted eyes,
In the great ether of existence rise,
And two hearts each to each the closer cling!—George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul.
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