Poem by George MacDonald

Fate

Oft, as I rest in quiet peace, am I
Thrust out at sudden doors, and madly driven
Through desert solitudes, and thunder-riven
Black passages which have not any sky:
The scourge is on me now, with all the cry
Of ancient life that hath with murder striven.
How many an anguish hath gone up to heaven,
How many a hand in prayer been lifted high
When the black fate came onward with the rush
Of whirlwind, avalanche, or fiery spume!
Even at my feet is cleft a shivering tomb
Beneath the waves; or else, with solemn hush
The graveyard opens, and I feel a crush
As if we were all huddled in one doom! 

1. To Garibaldi, with a Book
2. The Gospel Women. 8. The Widow with the Two Mites
3. The Gospel Women. 2. The Woman that lifted up her Voice
4. A. M. D
5. To S. F. S.

Francis Bret Harte Fate ("The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare")

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