The Lost House

A poem by George MacDonald

Out of thy door I run to do the thing
That calls upon me. Straight the wind of words
Whoops from mine ears the sounds of them that sing
About their work, "My God, my father-king!"

I turn in haste to see thy blessed door,
But, lo, a cloud of flies and bats and birds,
And stalking vapours, and vague monster-herds
Have risen and lighted, rushed and swollen between!

Ah me! the house of peace is there no more.
Was it a dream then?--Walls, fireside, and floor,
And sweet obedience, loving, calm, and free,
Are vanished--gone as they had never been!

I labour groaning. Comes a sudden sheen!--
And I am kneeling at my father's knee,
Sighing with joy, and hoping utterly.

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