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.