Sailing Beyond Seas.

(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!

My love! He stood at my right hand,
His eyes were grave and sweet.
Methought he said, "In this far land,
O, is it thus we meet!
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;
I have no place, - no part, -
No dwelling more by sea or shore,
But only in thy heart."
    O fair dove! O fond dove!
    Till night rose over the bourne,
    The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast,
    Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn.

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

Song In Three Parts.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

A Vine-Arbour In The Far West.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Compensation.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Friendship.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

English

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Songs Of The Night Watches, - The First Watch.

TIRED.

I.

O, I would tell you more, but I am tired;
For I have longed, and I have had my will;
I pleaded in my spirit, I desired:
"Ah! let me only see him, and be still
All my days after."
    Rock, and rock, and rock,
Over the falling, rising watery world,
Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main;
The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock
To light on a warmer plain.
White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled,
    Fall over in harmless play,
    As these do far away;
Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea,
All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee.

II.

    I am so tired,
If I would comfort me, I know not how,
For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired,
And I have nothing left to long for no...

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

Seven Times Seven. Longing For Home.

I.

    A song of a boat: -
There was once a boat on a billow:
Lightly she rocked to her port remote,
And the foam was white in her wake like snow,
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow
And bent like a wand of willow.

II.

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat
Went curtseying over the billow,
I marked her course till a dancing mote
She faded out on the moonlit foam,
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home;
And my thoughts all day were about the boat,
And my dreams upon the pillow.

III.

I pray you hear my song of a boat,
For it is but short: -
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat,
In river or port.
Long I looked out for the lad she bore,
On the open desolate sea,
And I think he sa...

Jean Ingelow

Seven Times Three. Love.

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover,
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate;
"Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover -
Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, wait
Till I listen and hear
If a step draweth near,
For my love he is late!

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer:
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?
Let the star-clusters glow,
Let the sweet waters flow,
And cross quickly to me.

"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over
From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;
You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover
To him that comes darkling along the rough steep...

Jean Ingelow

The Long White Seam.

As I came round the harbor buoy,
    The lights began to gleam,
No wave the land-locked water stirred,
    The crags were white as cream;
And I marked my love by candle-light
    Sewing her long white seam.
        It's aye sewing ashore, my dear,
    Watch and steer at sea,
        It's reef and furl, and haul the line,
    Set sail and think of thee.

I climbed to reach her cottage door;
    O sweetly my love sings!
Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth,
    My soul to meet it springs
As the shining water leaped of old,
    When stirred by angel wings.
        Aye longing to list anew,
    Awake and in my dream,
        But never a song she sang like this,
    Sewing her long white seam.

Fair fall the lights, the harbor ...

Jean Ingelow

Wedlock.

The sun was streaming in: I woke, and said,
"Where is my wife, - that has been made my wife
Only this year?" The casement stood ajar:
I did but lift my head: The pear-tree dropped,
The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leaves
And blossom, under heavens of happy blue.

My wife had wakened first, and had gone down
Into the orchard. All the air was calm;
Audible humming filled it. At the roots
Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps,
Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hills
Were tossing down their silver messengers,
And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo-birds,
Gave them good answer; all things else were mute;
An idle world lay listening to their talk,
They had it to themselves.
    What ails my wife?
I know not if aught ails her; though her...

Jean Ingelow