The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonald

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      Lily. Oh, but I shall though! and he looks so sad When you're not here!

      Lilia (aside). He cannot look much sadder Than when I am. I am sure 'tis a relief To find his child alone when he returns.

      Lily. Will you go, mother? Then I'll go and cry Till father comes. He'll take me on his knee, And tell such lovely tales: you never do— Nor sing me songs made all for my own self. He does not kiss me half so many times As you do, mother; but he loves me more. Do you love father, too? I love him so!

      Lilia (ready). There's such a pretty book! Sit on the stool, And look at the pictures till your father comes.

      [Goes.]

      Lily (putting the book down, and going to the window). I wish he would come home. I wish he would.

      Enter JULIAN.

      Oh, there he is!

      [Running up to him.]

      Oh, now I am so happy!

      [Laughing.]

      I had not time to watch before you came.

      Julian (taking her in his arms). I am very glad to have my little girl; I walked quite fast to come to her again.

      Lily. I do, do love you. Shall I tell you something? Think I should like to tell you. Tis a dream That I went into, somewhere in last night. I was alone—quite;—you were not with me, So I must tell you. 'Twas a garden, like That one you took me to, long, long ago, When the sun was so hot. It was not winter, But some of the poor leaves were growing tired With hanging there so long. And some of them Gave it up quite, and so dropped down and lay Quiet on the ground. And I was watching them. I saw one falling—down, down—tumbling down— Just at the earth—when suddenly it spread Great wings and flew.—It was a butterfly, So beautiful with wings, black, red, and white—

      [Laughing heartily.]

      I thought it was a crackly, withered leaf.

       Away it flew! I don't know where it went.

       And so I thought, I have a story now

       To tell dear father when he comes to Lily.

      Julian. Thank you, my child; a very pretty dream. But I am tired—will you go find another— Another dream somewhere in sleep for me?

      Lily. O yes, I will.—Perhaps I cannot find one.

      [He lays her down to sleep; then sits musing.]

      Julian. What shall I do to give it life again? To make it spread its wings before it fall, And lie among the dead things of the earth?

      Lily. I cannot go to sleep. Please, father, sing The song about the little thirsty lily.

      [JULIAN sings.]

      SONG.

      Little white Lily

       Sat by a stone,

       Drooping and waiting

       Till the sun shone.

       Little white Lily

       Sunshine has fed;

       Little white Lily

       Is lifting her head.

      Little white Lily

       Said, "It is good:

       Little white Lily's

       Clothing and food!

       Little white Lily

       Drest like a bride!

       Shining with whiteness,

       And crowned beside!"

      Little white Lily

       Droopeth in pain,

       Waiting and waiting

       For the wet rain.

       Little white Lily

       Holdeth her cup;

       Rain is fast falling,

       And filling it up.

      Little white Lily

       Said, "Good again,

       When I am thirsty

       To have nice rain!

       Now I am stronger,

       Now I am cool;

       Heat cannot burn me,

       My veins are so full!"

      Little white Lily

       Smells very sweet:

       On her head sunshine,

       Rain at her feet.

       "Thanks to the sunshine!

       Thanks to the rain!

       Little white Lily

       Is happy again!"

      [He is silent for a moment; then goes and looks at her.]

      Julian. She is asleep, the darling! Easily Is Sleep enticed to brood on childhood's heart. Gone home unto thy Father for the night!

      [He returns to his seat.]

      I have grown common to her. It is strange—

       This commonness—that, as a blight, eats up

       All the heart's springing corn and promised fruit.

      [Looking round.]

      This room is very common: everything

       Has such a well-known look of nothing in it;

       And yet when first I called it hers and mine,

       There was a mystery inexhaustible

       About each trifle on the chimney-shelf:

       The gilding now is nearly all worn off.

       Even she, the goddess of the wonder-world,

       Seems less mysterious and worshipful:

       No wonder I am common in her eyes.

       Alas! what must I think? Is this the true?

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