Sonnet. About Jesus. XII.
So highest poets, painters, owe to Thee Their being and disciples; none were there, Hadst Thou not been; Thou art the centre where The Truth did find an infinite form; and she Left not the earth again, but made it be One of her robing rooms, where she doth wear All forms of revelation. Artists bear Tapers in acolyte humility. O Poet! Painter! soul of all! thy art Went forth in making artists. Pictures? No; But painters, who in love should ever show To earnest men glad secrets from God's heart. So, in the desert, grass and wild flowers start, When through the sand the living waters go.
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"So highest poets, painters, owe to Thee..."
"Sonnet. About Jesus. XII." is a quintessential example of George MacDonald's signature style... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...