The Days Without Alloy.

When I sit on market-days amid the comers and the goers,
    Oh! full oft I have a vision of the days without alloy,
And a ship comes up the river with a jolly gang of towers,
    And a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!"

There is busy talk around me, all about mine ears it hummeth,
    But the wooden wharves I look on, and a dancing, heaving buoy,
For 'tis tidetime in the river, and she cometh - oh, she cometh!
    With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!"

Then I hear the water washing, never golden waves were brighter,
    And I hear the capstan creaking - 'tis a sound that cannot cloy.
Bring her to, to ship her lading, brig or schooner, sloop or lighter,
    With a "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!"

"Will ye step aboard, my dearest? for the high seas lie before us."
    So I sailed adown the river in those days without alloy.
We are launched! But when, I wonder, shall a sweeter sound float o'er us
    Than yon "pull'e haul'e, pull'e haul'e, yoy! heave, hoy!"

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

Sailing Beyond Seas.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Comfort In The Night.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Weeping And Wailing Needs Must Be. (Hymn)

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

The Fairy Woman's Song.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

English

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Kismet.

Into the rock the road is cut full deep,
    At its low ledges village children play,
From its high rifts fountains of leafage weep,
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The boldest climbers have its face forsworn,
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The children and the purple martins share

Jean Ingelow

Gloucester Moors

        A mile behind is Gloucester town
        Where the fishing fleets put in,
        A mile ahead the land dips down
        And the woods and farms begin.
        Here, where the moors stretch free
        In the high blue afternoon,
        Are the marching sun and talking sea,
        And the racing winds that wheel and flee
        On the flying heels of June.

        Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,
        Blue is the quaker-maid,
        The wild geranium holds its dew
        Long in the boulder's shade.
        Wax-red hangs the cup
        From the huckleberry boughs,
        In barberry bells the grey moths sup,
        Or where the choke-cherry lifts high up
        Sweet bowls for their carouse.

        Over the shel...

William Vaughn Moody

The Evenlode

I will not try to reach again,
I will not set my sail alone,
To moor a boat bereft of men
At Yarnton's tiny docks of stone.

But I will sit beside the fire,
And put my hand before my eyes,
And trace, to fill my heart's desire,
The last of all our Odysseys.

The quiet evening kept her tryst:
Beneath an open sky we rode,
And passed into a wandering mist
Along the perfect Evenlode.

The tender Evenlode that makes
Her meadows hush to hear the sound
Of waters mingling in the brakes,
And binds my heart to English ground.

A lovely river, all alone,
She lingers in the hills and holds
A hundred little towns of stone,
Forgotten in the western wolds.

Hilaire Belloc

The High Tide On The Coast Of Lincolnshire.

(1571.)


The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers ran by two, by three;
"Pull, if ye never pulled before;
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.
"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Ply all your changes, all your swells,
Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'"

Men say it was a stolen tyde -
The Lord that sent it, He knows all;
But in myne ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall:
And there was nought of strange, beside
The nights of mews and peewits pied
By millions crouched on the old sea wall.

I sat and spun within the doore,
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;
The level sun, like ruddy ore,
Lay sinking in the barren skies;
And dark against day's golden death
She moved where Lindis w...

Jean Ingelow

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 ...

Jean Ingelow

The Sea-Fairies

Slow saild the weary mariners and saw,
Betwixt the green brink and the running foam,
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest
To little harps of gold; and while they mused,
Whispering to each other half in fear,
Shrill music reachd them on the middle sea.

Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no more.
Whither away, from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore?
Day and night to the billow the fountain calls;
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls
From wandering over the lea;
Out of the live-green heart of the dells
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells,
And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells
High over the full-toned sea.
O, hither, come hither and furl your sails,
Come hither to me and to me;
Hither, come hither ...

Alfred Lord Tennyson