Feathers And Moss.

The marten flew to the finch's nest,
    Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay:
"The arrow it sped to thy brown mate's breast;
    Low in the broom is thy mate to-day."

"Liest thou low, love? low in the broom?
    Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,
Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom."
    She beateth her wings, and away, away.

"Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told
    (Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay)!
Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold.
    O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!"

The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest,
    Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay,
Mine is the trouble that rent her breast,
    And home is silent, and love is clay.

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

Echo And The Ferry.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

At One Again.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Failure.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Persephone.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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An Arrow-Slit.

I clomb full high the belfry tower
    Up to yon arrow-slit, up and away,
I said 'let me look on my heart's fair flower
    In the wallèd garden where she doth play.'

My care she knoweth not, no nor the cause,
    White rose, red rose about her hung,
And I aloft with the doves and the daws.
    They coo and call to their callow young.

Sing, 'O an she were a white rosebud fair
    Dropt, and in danger from passing feet,
'T is I would render her service tender,
    Upraised on my bosom with reverence meet.'

Playing at the ball, my dearest of all,
    When she grows older how will it be,
I dwell far away from her thoughts to-day
    That heed not, need not, or mine or me.

Sing, 'O an my love were a fledgeling dove
    That flutters fo...

Jean Ingelow

Songs On The Voices Of Birds. A Poet In His Youth, And The Cuckoo-Bird.

Once upon a time, I lay
Fast asleep at dawn of day;
Windows open to the south,
Fancy pouting her sweet mouth
To my ear.
    She turned a globe
In her slender hand, her robe
Was all spangled; and she said,
As she sat at my bed's head,
"Poet, poet, what, asleep!
Look! the ray runs up the steep
To your roof." Then in the golden
Essence of romances olden,
Bathed she my entrancéd heart.
And she gave a hand to me,
Drew me onward, "Come!" said she;
And she moved with me apart,
Down the lovely vale of Leisure.

Such its name was, I heard say,
For some Fairies trooped that way;
Common people of the place,
Taking their accustomed pleasure,
(All the clocks being stopped) to race
Down the slope on palfreys fleet.
Bridle bells m...

Jean Ingelow

Songs On The Voices Of Birds. Sea-Mews In Winter Time.

I walked beside a dark gray sea.
And said, "O world, how cold thou art!
Thou poor white world, I pity thee,
For joy and warmth from thee depart.

"Yon rising wave licks off the snow,
Winds on the crag each other chase,
In little powdery whirls they blow
The misty fragments down its face.

"The sea is cold, and dark its rim,
Winter sits cowering on the wold,
And I beside this watery brim,
Am also lonely, also cold."

I spoke, and drew toward a rock,
Where many mews made twittering sweet;
Their wings upreared, the clustering flock
Did pat the sea-grass with their feet.

A rock but half submerged, the sea
Ran up and washed it while they fed;
Their fond and foolish ecstasy
A wondering in my fancy bred.

Joy companied wi...

Jean Ingelow

Song In Three Parts.

I.

The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather,
    'O most sweet wear;
Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me,
    Four am I fair,'

    Quoth the brown bee
    'In thy white wear
    Four thou art fair.
    A mystery
    Of honeyed snow
    In scented air
    The bee lines flow
    Straight unto thee.
    Great boon and bliss
    All pure I wis,
    And sweet to grow
    Ay, so to give
    That many live.
    Now as for me,
    I,' quoth the bee,
    'Have not to give,
    Through long hours sunny
    Gathering I live:
    Aye debonair
    Sailing sweet air
    After my fare,
    Bee-bread and honey.
    In thy deep coombe,
    O thou white broom,
    Where no...

Jean Ingelow

Fancy.

O fancy, if thou flyest, come back anon,
    Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's first word,
    And fragrant as the feathers of that bird,
Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon.
I ask thee not to work, or sigh - play on,
    From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred;
    The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have stirred,
And waved memorial grass of Marathon.
Play, but be gentle, not as on that day
    I saw thee running down the rims of doom
With stars thou hadst been stealing - while they lay
    Smothered in light and blue - clasped to thy breast;
Bring rather to me in the firelit room
    A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest.

Jean Ingelow

Songs On The Voices Of Birds. The Nightingale Heard By The Unsatisfied Heart.

    When in a May-day hush
    Chanteth the Missel-thrush
The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous stirs;
    When Robin-redbreast sings,
    We think on budding springs,
And Culvers when they coo are love's remembrancers.

    But thou in the trance of light
    Stayest the feeding night,
And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance wise,
    And casts at our glad feet,
    In a wisp of fancies fleet,
Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies.

    Her central thought full well
    Thou hast the wit to tell,
To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it so;
    The moral of moonlight
    To set in a cadence bright,
And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none did know.

    I have no nest as thou,
 ...

Jean Ingelow