Quotes by Jean Ingelow

lips reply without her will, As one addressed who slumbereth still-- "The daffodil, the daffodil!" Her eyelids droop with light oppressed, And sunny wafts that round her stir, Her cheek upon her mother's breast-- Demeter's kisses comfort her. Calm Queen of Hades, art thou she Who stepped so lightly on the lea-- Persephone, Persephone? When, in her destined course, the moon Meets the deep shadow of this world, And laboring on doth seem to swoon Through awful wastes of dimness whirled-- Emerged at length, no trace hath she Of that dark hour of destiny, Still silvery sweet--Persephone. The greater world may near the less, And draw it through her weltering shade, But not one biding trace impress Of all the darkness that she made; The greater soul that draweth thee Hath left his shadow plain to see On thy fair face, Persephone! Demeter sighs, but sure 'tis well The wife should love her destiny: They part, and yet, as legends tell, She mourns her lost Persephone; While chant the maids of Enna still-- "O fateful flower beside the rill-- The daffodil, the daffodil!" A SEA SONG. Old Albion sat on a crag of late. And sang out--"Ahoy! ahoy! Long, life to the captain, good luck to the mate. And this to my sailor boy! Come over, come home, Through the salt sea foam, My sailor, my sailor boy. "Here's a crown to be given away, I ween, A crown for my sailor's head, And all for the worth of a widowed queen, And the love of the noble dead; And the fear and fame Of the island's name Where my boy was born and bred. "Content thee, content thee, let it alone, Thou marked for a choice so rare; Though treaties be treaties, never a throne Was proffered for cause as fair. Yet come to me home, Through the salt sea foam, For the Greek must ask elsewhere. "'Tis a pity, my sailor, but who can tell? Many lands they look to me; One of these might be wanting a Prince as well, But that's as hereafter may be." She raised her white head And laughed; and she said "That's as hereafter may be.

Thou dost inherit, as thy Maker's son, That which He is, and that which He hath made: Thou art thy Father's copy of Himself,-- THOU art thy FATHER'S MIRACLE. Behold He buildeth up the stars in companies; He made for them a law. To man He said, 'Freely I give thee freedom.' What remains? O, it remains, if thou, the image of God, Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know His ways; But first thou must be loyal,--love, O man, Thy Father,--hearken when He pleads with thee, For there is something left of Him e'en now,-- A witness for thy Father in thy soul, Albeit thy better state thou hast foregone. "Now, then, be still, and think not in thy soul, 'The rivers in their course forever run, And turn not from it. He is like to them Who made them,' Think the rather, 'With my foot I have turned the rivers from their ancient way, To water grasses that were fading. What! Is God my Father as the river wave, That yet descendeth, like the lesser thing He made, and not like me, a living son, That changed the watercourse to suit his will?' "Man is the miracle in nature. God Is the ONE MIRACLE to man. Behold, 'There is a God,' thou sayest. Thou sayest well: In that thou sayest all. To Be is more Of wonderful, than being, to have wrought, Or reigned, or rested. Hold then there, content; Learn that to love is the one way to know, Or God or man: it is not love received That maketh man to know the inner life Of them that love him; his own love bestowed Shall do it. Love thy Father, and no more His doings shall be strange. Thou shalt not fret At any counsel, then, that He will send,-- No, nor rebel, albeit He have with thee Great reservations. Know, to Be is more Than to have acted; yea, or after rest And patience, to have risen and been wroth, Broken the sequence of an ordered earth, And troubled nations." Then the dragon sighed. "Poor fanatic," quoth he, "thou speakest well. Would I were like thee, for thy faith is strong, Albeit thy senses wander. Yea, good sooth, My masters, let us not despise, but learn Fresh loyalty from this poor loyal soul.

The yellow poplar-leaves came down And like a carpet lay, No waftings were in the sunny air To flutter them away; And he stepped on blithe and debonair That warm October day. "The boy," saith he, "hath got his own, But sore has been the fight, For ere his life began the strife That ceased but yesternight; For the will," he said, "the kinsfolk read, And read it not aright. "His cause was argued in the court Before his christening day, And counsel was heard, and judge demurred, And bitter waxed the fray; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way. "Against each one did each contend, And all against the heir. I would not bend, for I knew the end-- I have it for my share, And nought repent, though my first friend From henceforth I must spare. "Manor and moor and farm and wold Their greed begrudged him sore, And parchments old with passionate hold They guarded heretofore; And they carped at signature and seal, But they may carp no more. "An old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain, And I feel the fret that urged me yet That warfare to maintain; For an enemy's loss may well be set Above an infant's gain. "An enemy's loss I go to prove, Laugh out, thou little heir! Laugh in his face who vowed to chase Thee from thy birthright fair; For I come to set thee in thy place: Laugh out, and do not spare." A man of strife, in wrathful mood He neared the nurse's door; With poplar-leaves the roof and eaves Were thickly scattered o'er, And yellow as they a sunbeam lay Along the cottage floor. "Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb," He hears the fond nurse say; "And if angels stand at thy right hand, As now belike they may, And if angels meet at thy bed's feet, I fear them not this day. "Come wealth, come want to thee, dear heart, It was all one to me, For thy pretty tongue far sweeter rung Than coinèd gold and fee; And ever the while thy waking smile It was right fair to see. "Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know Who grudged and who transgressed: Thee to retain I was full fain, But God, He knoweth best!

If she had known--oh, if she could have known-- The toils, the hardships of those absent years-- How bitter thraldom forced the unwilling groan-- How slavery wrung out subduing tears, Not calmly had she passed her hours away, Chiding half pettishly the long delay. But she was spared. She knew no sense of harm, While the red flames ascended from the deck; Saw not the pirate band the crew disarm, Mourned not the floating spars, the smoking wreck. She did not dream, and there was none to tell, That fetters bound the hands she loved so well. Sweet Margaret--withdrawn from human view, She spent long hours beneath the cedar shade, The stately trees that in the garden grew, And, overtwined, a towering shelter made; She mused among the flowers, and birds, and bees, In winding walks, and bowering canopies; Or wandered slowly through the ancient rooms, Where oriel windows shed their rainbow gleams; And tapestried hangings, wrought in Flemish looms, Displayed the story of King Pharaoh's dreams; And, come at noon because the well was deep, Beautiful Rachel leading down her sheep. At last she reached the bloom of womanhood, After five summers spent in growing fair; Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come was there Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, When childish thoughts, like flowers, would drift away. O! we are far too happy while they last; We have our good things first, and they cost naught; Then the new splendor comes unfathomed, vast, A costly trouble, ay, a sumptuous thought, And will not wait, and cannot be possessed, Though infinite yearnings fold it to the breast. And time, that seemed so long, is fleeting by, And life is more than life; love more than love; We have not found the whole--and we must die-- And still the unclasped glory floats above. The inmost and the utmost faint from sight, For ever secret in their veil of light. Be not too hasty in your flow, you rhymes, For Margaret is in her garden bower; Delay to ring, you soft cathedral chimes, And tell not out too soon the noontide hour: For one draws nearer to your ancient town, On the green mount down settled like a crown. He journeyed on, and, as he neared the gate, He met with one to whom he named the maid, Inquiring of her welfare and her state. And of the matron in whose house she stayed.

So she did, And presently a dolphin bouncing up, She sprang upon his slippery back,--"Farewell," She laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm. Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware In the smooth weather that this woman talked Like one in sleep, and murmured certain thoughts Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. She nodded, "Yes, the girl is going now To her own island. Gladys poor? Not she! Who thinks so? Once I met a man in white, Who said to me, 'The thing that might have been Is called, and questioned why it hath not been; And can it give good reason, it is set Beside the actual, and reckoned in To fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, so The possible stands by us ever fresh, Fairer than aught which any life hath owned, And makes divine amends. Now this was set Apart from kin, and not ordained a home; An equal;--and not suffered to fence in A little plot of earthly good, and say, 'Tis mine'; but in bereavement of the part, O, yet to taste the whole,--to understand The grandeur of the story, not to feel Satiate with good possessed, but evermore A healthful hunger for the great idea, The beauty and the blessedness of life. "Lo, now, the shadow!" quoth she, breaking off, "We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn, And, O, the mountain with the purple peaks Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, And they were in it: and she saw the snow, And under that the rocks, and under that The pines, and then the pasturage; and saw Numerous dips, and undulations rare, Running down seaward, all astir with lithe Long canes, and lofty feathers; for the palms And spice trees of the south, nay, every growth, Meets in that island. So that woman ran The boat ashore, and Gladys set her foot Thereon. Then all at once much laughter rose; Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, "It all belongs to Gladys"; and she ran And hid herself among the nearest trees And panted, shedding tears. So she looked round, And saw that she was in a banyan grove, Full of wild peacocks,--pecking on the grass, A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where high They sat in rows along the boughs.

Yet dreaming on earth's clustered isles, He saith "They dwell not lone like men, Forgetful that their sunflecked smiles Flash far beyond each other's ken." He looks on God's eternal suns That sprinkle the celestial blue, And saith, "Ah! happy shining ones, I would that men were grouped like you!" Yet this is sure, the loveliest star That clustered with its peers we see, Only because from us so far Doth near its fellows seem to be. SONGS OF SEVEN. SEVEN TIMES ONE. EXULTATION. There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven: I've said my "seven times" over and over, Seven times one are seven. I am old, so old, I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done; The lambs play always, they know no better; They are only one times one. O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low; You were bright! ah bright! but your light is failing-- You are nothing now but a bow. You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven That God has hidden your face? I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place. O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, You've powdered your legs with gold! O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold! O columbine, open your folded wrapper, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! O cuckoo pint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell! And show me your nest with the young ones in it; I will not steal them away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet-- I am seven times one to-day. SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days. "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, While a boy listened alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone.

They reigned in their lifetime with sceptre and diadem, But thou excellest them; For life doth make thy grave her oratory, And the crown is still on thy brow; 'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,' And so dost thou." REFLECTIONS. LOOKING OVER A GATE AT A POOL IN A FIELD. What change has made the pastures sweet And reached the daisies at my feet, And cloud that wears a golden hem? This lovely world, the hills, the sward-- They all look fresh, as if our Lord But yesterday had finished them. And here's the field with light aglow; How fresh its boundary lime-trees show, And how its wet leaves trembling shine! Between their trunks come through to me The morning sparkles of the sea Below the level browsing line I see the pool more clear by half Than pools where other waters laugh Up at the breasts of coot and rail. There, as she passed it on her way, I saw reflected yesterday A maiden with a milking-pail. There, neither slowly nor in haste, One hand upon her slender waist, The other lifted to her pail, She, rosy in the morning light, Among the water-daisies white, Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. Against her ankles as she trod The lucky buttercups did nod. I leaned upon the gate to see: The sweet thing looked, but did not speak; A dimple came in either cheek, And all my heart was gone from me. Then, as I lingered on the gate, And she came up like coming fate, I saw my picture in her eyes-- Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes, Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows Among white-headed majesties. I said, "A tale was made of old That I would fain to thee unfold; Ah! let me--let me tell the tale." But high she held her comely head; "I cannot heed it now," she said, "For carrying of the milking-pail." She laughed. What good to make ado? I held the gate, and she came through, And took her homeward path anon. From the clear pool her face had fled; It rested on my heart instead, Reflected when the maid was gone. With happy youth, and work content, So sweet and stately on she went, Right careless of the untold tale. Each step she took I loved her more, And followed to her dairy door The maiden with the milking-pail.