Sledge Bells.

The logs burn red; she lifts her head,
    For sledge-bells tinkle and tinkle, O lightly swung.
"Youth was a pleasant morning, but ah! to think 'tis fled,
    Sae lang, lang syne," quo' her mother, "I, too, was young."

No guides there are but the North star,
    And the moaning forest tossing wild arms before,
The maiden murmurs, "O sweet were yon bells afar,
    And hark! hark! hark! for he cometh, he nears the door."

Swift north-lights show, and scatter and go.
    How can I meet him, and smile not, on this cold shore?
Nay, I will call him, "Come in from the night and the snow,
    And love, love, love in the wild wood, wander no 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

Speranza.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

An Ancient Chess King.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

The Beginning.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Friendship.

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.

A Winter Song.

Came the dread Archer up yonder lawn -
    Night is the time for the old to die -
But woe for an arrow that smote the fawn,
    When the hind that was sick unscathed went by.

Father lay moaning, "Her fault was sore
    (Night is the time when the old must die),
Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more,
    For heart is failing: the end is nigh."

"Daughter, my daughter, my girl," I cried
    (Night is the time for the old to die),
"Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide" -
    Dark was the welkin and wild the sky.

Heavily plunged from the roof the snow -
    (Night is the time when the old will die),
She answered, "My mother, 'tis well, I go."
    Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew high.

First at his head, and last at his feet
...

Jean Ingelow

Seven Times Two. Romance.

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,
How many soever they be,
And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges
Come over, come over to me.

Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling
No magical sense conveys,
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling
The fortune of future days.

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily,
While a boy listened alone;
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily
All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,
And mine, they are yet to be;
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover:
You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,
And hangeth her hoods of snow;
She was idle, and slept ti...

Jean Ingelow

An Old Wife's Song.

And what will ye hear, my daughters dear? -
    Oh, what will ye hear this night?
Shall I sing you a song of the yuletide cheer,
    Or of lovers and ladies bright?

"Thou shalt sing," they say (for we dwell far away
    From the land where fain would we be),
"Thou shalt sing us again some old-world strain
    That is sung in our own countrie.

"Thou shalt mind us so of the times long ago,
    When we walked on the upland lea,
While the old harbor light waxed faint in the white,
    Long rays shooting out from the sea;

"While lambs were yet asleep, and the dew lay deep
    On the grass, and their fleeces clean and fair.
Never grass was seen so thick nor so green
    As the grass that grew up there!

"In the town was no smoke, for none ther...

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

Not In Vain I Waited.

        She was but a child, a child,
    And I a man grown;
        Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild,
    And, I thought, my own.
What could I do? The long grass groweth,
    The long wave floweth with a murmur on:
The why and the wherefore of it all who knoweth?
    Ere I thought to lose her she was grown - and gone.
This day or that day in warm spring weather.
The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its tether.
"But if the world wound thee," I said, "come back to me,
Down in the dell wishing - wishing, wishing for thee."

        The dews hang on the white may,
    Like a ghost it stands,
        All in the dusk before day
    That folds the dim lands:

Dark fell the skies when once belated,
    Sad, and sorrow-fated, I missed the sun;

Jean Ingelow

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