Even thou canst give me neither thought nor thing,

Were it the priceless pearl hid in the land,

Which, if I fix thereon a greedy gaze,

Becomes not poison that doth burn and cling;

Their own bad look my foolish eyes doth daze,

They see the gift, see not the giving hand—

From the living root the apple dead I wring.

–George MacDonald, A Book of Strife in the Form of The Diary of an Old Soul


This material may be protected by copyright.