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    A Gift

    by George MacDonald
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    My gift would find thee fast asleep,
    And arise a dream in thee;
    A violet sky o'er the roll and sweep
    Of a purple and pallid sea;
    And a crescent moon from my sky should creep
    In the golden dream to thee.

    Thou shouldst lay thee down, and sadly list
    To the wail of our cold birth-time;
    And build thee a temple, glory-kissed,
    In the heart of the sunny clime;
    Its columns should rise in a music-mist,
    And its roofs in a spirit-rhyme.

    Its pillars the solemn hills should bind
    'Neath arches of starry deeps;
    Its floor the earth all veined and lined;
    Its organ the ocean-sweeps;
    And, swung in the hands of the grey-robed wind,
    Its censers the blossom-heaps.

    And 'tis almost done; for in this my rhyme,
    Thanks to thy mirror-soul,
    Thou wilt see the mountains, and hear the chime
    Of the waters after the roll;
    And the stars of my sky thy sky will climb,
    And with heaven roof in the whole.

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