Compensation.

One launched a ship, but she was wrecked at sea;
    He built a bridge, but floods have borne it down;
He meant much good, none came: strange destiny,
    His corn lies sunk, his bridge bears none to town,
    Yet good he had not meant became his crown;
For once at work, when even as nature free,
    From thought of good he was, or of renown,
God took the work for good and let good be.
So wakened with a trembling after sleep,
    Dread Mona Roa yields her fateful store;
All gleaming hot the scarlet rivers creep,
    And fanned of great-leaved palms slip to the shore,
Then stolen to unplumbed wastes of that far deep,
    Lay the foundations for one island more.

Jean Ingelow

Jean Ingelow was an English poet and novelist known for her popular stories and poems in the 19th century. Her work, including 'Mopsa the Fairy', earned her recognition during her lifetime. She was also involved in the Pre-Raphaelite movement. Ingelow published several poetry collections, with her first in 1863, which was well-received and cemented her reputation as a poet.

Jean Ingelow

Lovers At The Lake Side.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

A Lily And A Lute.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Seven Times One. Exultation.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

On A Picture.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Loss And Waste.

Up to far Osteroe and Suderoe
    The deep sea-floor lies strewn with Spanish wrecks,
O'er minted gold the fair-haired fishers go,
    O'er sunken bravery of high carvèd decks.

In earlier days great Carthage suffered bale
    (All her waste works choke under sandy shoals);
And reckless hands tore down the temple veil;
    And Omar burned the Alexandrian rolls.
The Old World arts men suffered not to last,
    Flung down they trampled lie and sunk from view,
He lets wild forest for these ages past
    Grow over the lost cities of the New.

O for a life that shall not be refused
To see the lost things found, and waste things used.

Jean Ingelow

A Cottage In A Chine.

We reached the place by night,
And heard the waves breaking:
They came to meet us with candles alight
To show the path we were taking.
A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white
With tufted flowers down shaking.

With head beneath her wing,
A little wren was sleeping -
So near, I had found it an easy thing
To steal her for my keeping
From the myrtle-bough that with easy swing
Across the path was sweeping.

Down rocky steps rough-hewed,
Where cup-mosses flowered,
And under the trees, all twisted and rude,
Wherewith the dell was dowered,
They led us, where deep in its solitude
Lay the cottage, leaf-embowered.

The thatch was all bespread
With climbing passion-flowers;
They were wet, and glistened with raindrops, shed
That da...

Jean Ingelow

Wishing.

When I reflect how little I have done,
    And add to that how little I have seen,
Then furthermore how little I have won
    Of joy, or good, how little known, or been:
    I long for other life more full, more keen,
And yearn to change with such as well have run -
    Yet reason mocks me - nay, the soul, I ween,
Granted her choice would dare to change with none;
No, - not to feel, as Blondel when his lay
    Pierced the strong tower, and Richard answered it -
No, - not to do, as Eustace on the day
    He left fair Calais to her weeping lit -
No, - not to be, Columbus, waked from sleep
When his new world rose from the charmèd deep.

Jean Ingelow

Dominion.

When found the rose delight in her fair hue?
Color is nothing to this world; 'tis I
That see it. Farther, I have found, my soul,
That trees are nothing to their fellow trees;
It is but I that love their stateliness,
And I that, comforting my heart, do sit
At noon beneath their shadow. I will step
On the ledges of this world, for it is mine;
But the other world ye wot of, shall go too;
I will carry it in my bosom. O my world,
That was not built with clay!
    Consider it
(This outer world we tread on) as a harp, -
A gracious instrument on whose fair strings
We learn those airs we shall be set to play
When mortal hours are ended. Let the wings,
Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind,
And draw forth melody. Why shouldst thou yet
Lie grovelling? More is w...

Jean Ingelow

On A Picture.

As a forlorn soul waiting by the Styx
    Dimly expectant of lands yet more dim,
Might peer afraid where shadows change and mix
    Till the dark ferryman shall come for him.

And past all hope a long ray in his sight,
    Fall'n trickling down the steep crag Hades-black
Reveals an upward path to life and light,
    Nor any let but he should mount that track.

As with the sudden shock of joy amazed,
    He might a motionless sweet moment stand,
So doth that mortal lover, silent, dazed,
    For hope had died and loss was near at hand.

'Wilt thou?' his quest. Unready but for 'Nay,'
He stands at fault for joy, she whispering 'Ay.'

Jean Ingelow

Promising.

(A MAN SPEAKS.)

Once, a new world, the sunswart marinere,
    Columbus, promised, and was sore withstood,
Ungraced, unhelped, unheard for many a year;
    But let at last to make his promise good.
Promised and promising I go, most dear,
    To better my dull heart with love's sweet feud,
My life with its most reverent hope and fear,
    And my religion, with fair gratitude.
O we must part; the stars for me contend,
    And all the winds that blow on all the seas.
Through wonderful waste places I must wend,
    And with a promise my sad soul appease.
Promise then, promise much of far-off bliss;
But - ah, for present joy, give me one kiss.

Jean Ingelow