Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I. eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 316 pages of information about Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I..

Quoth the Sergeant, “Here I’ll halt; here’s wine of joy for drinking;
To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings doth play;
All among the daffodils, and fairer to my thinking,
And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of May.”

Quoth the Sergeant, “Work is work, but any ye might make me,
If I worked for you, dear lass, I’d count my holiday. 
I’m your slave for good and all, an’ if ye will but take me,
So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn of May.”

“Medals count for worth,” quoth she, “and scars are worn for honor;
But a slave an’ if ye be, kind wooer, go your way.” 
All the nodding daffodils woke up and laughed upon her. 
O! sweetly did she carol, all on that morn of May.

Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they fluttered fast and faster,
Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the dull delay: 
“Beauty! when I said a slave, I think I meant a master;
So sweetly as ye carol all on this morn of May.

“Lass, I love you!  Love is strong, and some men’s hearts are tender.” 
Far she sought o’er wood and wold, but found not aught to say;
Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any counsel render,
Though sweetly she had carolled upon that morn of May.

Shy, she sought the wooer’s face, and deemed the wooing mended;
Proper man he was, good sooth, and one would have his way: 
So the lass was made a wife, and so the song was ended. 
O! sweetly she did carol all on that morn of May.





(Old Style.)

Methought the stars were blinking bright,
  And the old brig’s sails unfurled;
I said, “I will sail to my love this night
  At the other side of the world.” 
I stepped aboard,—­we sailed so fast,—­
  The sun shot up from the bourne;
But a dove that perched upon the mast
  Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 
      O fair dove!  O fond dove! 
        And dove with the white breast,
      Let me alone, the dream is my own,
        And my heart is full of rest.

My true love fares on this great hill,
  Feeding his sheep for aye;
I looked in his hut, but all was still,
  My love was gone away. 
I went to gaze in the forest creek,
  And the dove mourned on apace;
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek
  Rose up to show me his place. 
      O last love!  O first love! 
        My love with the true heart,
      To think I have come to this your home,
        And yet—­we are apart!

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Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I. from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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