Explore "Fate" by George MacDonald on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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!