Morning

A dim aurora rises in my east,
Beyond the line of jagged questions hoar,
As if the head of our intombed High Priest,
Began to glow behind the unopened door:
Sure the gold wings will soon rise from gray!
They rise not. Up I rise, press on the more,
To meet the slow coming of the Master’s day.

-George MacDonald

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1 Comment

Filed under Poetry

One response to “Morning

  1. Hmmm…..he certainly says a lot with very few words. He paints a beautiful picture. Thankyou for sharing.

    Sue

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