On The Borders Of Cannock Chase.

A cottager leaned whispering by her hives,
    Telling the bees some news, as they lit down,
    And entered one by one their waxen town.
Larks passioning hung o'er their brooding wives,
And all the sunny hills where heather thrives
    Lay satisfied with peace. A stately crown
    Of trees enringed the upper headland brown,
And reedy pools, wherein the moor-hen dives,
Glittered and gleamed.
    A resting-place for light,
They that were bred here love it; but they say,
    "We shall not have it long; in three years' time
A hundred pits will cast out fires by night,
Down yon still glen their smoke shall trail its way,
And the white ash lie thick in lieu of rime."

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

The Days Without Alloy.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Like A Laverock In The Lift.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Sailing Beyond Seas.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

The White Moon Wasteth.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

English

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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,
O...

Jean Ingelow

Poynings.

    Do you remember that June day among
    The hills, the high, far-reaching Sussex hills?
    Above, the straggling flocks of fleecy clouds
    That skipped and chased each other merrily
    In God's warm pasturage, the azure sky;
    Below, the hills that stretched their mighty heads
    As though they fain would neighbor with that sky.
    Deep, vivid green, save where the flocks showed white;
    The wise ewes hiding from the glow of noon
    In shady spots, the short-wooled lambs at play,
    And over all the stillness of the hills,
    The sweet and solemn stillness of the hills.

    The shepherds gave us just such looks of mild
    Surprise as did the sheep they shepherded.
    "Ye are not of the hills," so said the looks,
    "Not of our kind, but st...

Jean Blewett

A Reverie.

        When I do sit apart
        And commune with my heart,
She brings me forth the treasures once my own;
        Shows me a happy place
        Where leaf-buds swelled apace,
And wasting rims of snow in sunlight shone.

        Rock, in a mossy glade,
        The larch-trees lend thee shade,
That just begin to feather with their leaves;
        From out thy crevice deep
        White tufts of snowdrops peep,
And melted rime drips softly from thine eaves.

        Ah, rock, I know, I know
        That yet thy snowdrops grow,
And yet doth sunshine fleck them through the tree,
        Whose sheltering branches hide
        The cottage at its side,
That nevermore will shade or shelter me.

        I know the stockdoves' note
    ...

Jean Ingelow

Married Lovers.

Come away, the clouds are high,
Put the flashing needles by.
Many days are not to spare,
Or to waste, my fairest fair!
All is ready. Come to-day,
For the nightingale her lay,
When she findeth that the whole
Of her love, and all her soul,
Cannot forth of her sweet throat,
Sobs the while she draws her breath,
And the bravery of her note
In a few days altereth.

Come, ere she despond, and see
In a silent ecstasy
Chestnuts heave for hours and hours
All the glory of their flowers
To the melting blue above,
That broods over them like love.
Leave the garden walls, where blow
Apple-blossoms pink, and low
Ordered beds of tulips fine.
Seek the blossoms made divine
With a scent that is their soul.
These are soulless. Bring the whit...

Jean Ingelow

Wendover.

Uplifted and lone, set apart with our love
    On the crest of a soft swelling down
Cloud shadows that meet on the grass at our feet
    Sail on above Wendover town.

Wendover town takes the smile of the sun
    As if yearning and strife were no more,
From her red roofs float high neither plaint neither sigh,
    All the weight of the world is our own.

Would that life were more kind and that souls might have peace
    As the wide mead from storm and from bale,
We bring up our own care, but how sweet over there
    And how strange is their calm in the vale.

As if trouble at noon had achieved a deep sleep,
    Lapped and lulled from the weariful fret,
Or shot down out of day, had a hint dropt away
    As if grief might attain to forget.

No...

Jean Ingelow

Defton Wood.

I held my way through Defton Wood,
    And on to Wandor Hall;
The dancing leaf let down the light,
    In hovering spots to fall.
"O young, young leaves, you match me well,"
    My heart was merry, and sung -
"Now wish me joy of my sweet youth;
    My love - she, too, is young!
        O so many, many, many
    Little homes above my head!
        O so many, many, many
    Dancing blossoms round me spread!
        O so many, many, many
    Maidens sighing yet for none!
        Speed, ye wooers, speed with any -
    Speed with all but one."

I took my leave of Wandor Hall,
    And trod the woodland ways.
"What shall I do so long to bear
    The burden of my days?"
I sighed my heart into the boughs
    Whereby the culvers cooed;

Jean Ingelow