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..


“I grant to the king his reign;
  Let us yield him homage due;
But over the lands there are twain,
  O king, I must rule as you.


“I grant to the wise his meed,
  But his yoke I will not brook,
For God taught ME to read,—­
  He lent me the world for a book.”



Beautiful eyes,—­and shall I see no more
The living thought when it would leap from them,
And play in all its sweetness ’neath their lids?

Here was a man familiar with fair heights
That poets climb.  Upon his peace the tears
And troubles of our race deep inroads made,
Yet life was sweet to him; he kept his heart
At home.  Who saw his wife might well have thought,—­
“God loves this man.  He chose a wife for him,—­
The true one!” O sweet eyes, that seem to live,
I know so much of you, tell me the rest! 
Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care
For small, young children.  Is a message here
That you would fain have sent, but had not time? 
If such there be, I promise, by long love
And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes
Of understanding, that I will not fail,
No, nor delay to find it. 
                          O, my heart
Will often pain me as for some strange fault,—­
Some grave defect in nature,—­when I think
How I, delighted, ’neath those olive-trees,
Moved to the music of the tideless main,
While, with sore weeping, in an island home
They laid that much-loved head beneath the sod,
And I did not know.


I stand on the bridge where last we stood
  When young leaves played at their best. 
The children called us from yonder wood,
  And rock-doves crooned on the nest.


Ah, yet you call,—­in your gladness call,—­
  And I hear your pattering feet;
It does not matter, matter at all,
  You fatherless children sweet,—­


It does not matter at all to you,
  Young hearts that pleasure besets;
The father sleeps, but the world is new,
  The child of his love forgets.


I too, it may be, before they drop,
  The leaves that flicker to-day,
Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop,
  Shall pass from my place away: 


Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white,
  Or snow lies soft on the wold,
Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light,
  And leave the story untold.

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