With A Diamond.

While Time a grim old lion gnawing lay,
    And mumbled with his teeth yon regal tomb,
Like some immortal tear undimmed for aye,
    This gem was dropped among the dust of doom.

Dropped, haply, by a sad, forgotten queen,
    A tear to outlast name, and fame, and tongue:
Her other tears, and ours, all tears terrene,
    For great new griefs to be hereafter sung.

Take it, - a goddess might have wept such tears,
    Or Dame Electra changed into a star,
That waxed so dim because her children's years
    In leaguered Troy were bitter through long war.

Not till the end to end grow dull or waste, -
    Ah, what a little while the light we share!
Hand after hand shall yet with this be graced,
    Signing the Will that leaves it to an heir.

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

Seven Times Four. Maternity.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Loss And Waste.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Like A Laverock In The Lift.

Jean Ingelow, Simple Poetry

Songs On The Voices Of Birds. Introduction. Child And Boatman.

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.

Seven Times Five. Widowhood.

I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan
Before I am well awake;
"Let me bleed! O let me alone,
Since I must not break!"

For children wake, though fathers sleep
With a stone at foot and at head:
O sleepless God, forever keep,
Keep both living and dead!

I lift mine eyes, and what to see
But a world happy and fair!
I have not wished it to mourn with me -
Comfort is not there.

O what anear but golden brooms,
And a waste of reedy rills!
O what afar but the fine glooms
On the rare blue hills!

I shall not die, but live forlore -
How bitter it is to part!
O to meet thee, my love, once more!
O my heart, my heart!

No more to hear, no more to see!
O that an echo might wake
And waft one note of thy psalm to me

Jean Ingelow

Tis An Old Tale And Often Told.

Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed,
Those we let fall over the silent dead?
Can our thoughts image forth no darker doom,
Than that which wraps us in the peaceful tomb?
Whom have ye laid beneath that mossy grave,
Round which the slender, sunny, grass-blades wave?
Who are ye calling back to tread again
This weary walk of life? towards whom, in vain,
Are your fond eyes and yearning hearts upraised;
The young, the loved, the honoured, and the praised?
Come hither; - look upon the faded cheek
Of that still woman, who with eyelids meek
Veils her most mournful eyes; - upon her brow
Sometimes the sensitive blood will faintly glow,
When reckless hands her heart-wounds roughly tear,
But patience oftener sits palely there.
Beauty has left her - hope and joy have...

Frances Anne Kemble

Love's Thread Of Gold.

In the night she told a story,
    In the night and all night through,
While the moon was in her glory,
    And the branches dropped with dew.

'Twas my life she told, and round it
    Rose the years as from a deep;
In the world's great heart she found it,
    Cradled like a child asleep.

In the night I saw her weaving
    By the misty moonbeam cold,
All the weft her shuttle cleaving
    With a sacred thread of gold.

Ah! she wept me tears of sorrow,
    Lulling tears so mystic sweet;
Then she wove my last to-morrow,
    And her web lay at my feet.

Of my life she made the story:
    I must weep - so soon 'twas told!
But your name did lend it glory,
    And your love its thread of gold!

Jean Ingelow

A Dead Year.

I took a year out of my life and story -
A dead year, and said, "I will hew thee a tomb!
'All the kings of the nations lie in glory;'
Cased in cedar, and shut in a sacred gloom;
Swathed in linen, and precious unguents old;
Painted with cinnabar, and rich with gold.

"Silent they rest, in solemn salvatory,
Sealed from the moth and the owl and the flitter-mouse -
    Each with his name on his brow.
'All the kings of the nations lie in glory,
Every one in his own house:'
    Then why not thou?

"Year," I said, "thou shalt not lack
Bribes to bar thy coming back;
Doth old Egypt wear her best
In the chambers of her rest?
Doth she take to her last bed
Beaten gold, and glorious red?
Envy not! for thou wilt wear
In the dark a shroud as fair;

Jean Ingelow

Persephone.

(Written for THE PORTFOLIO SOCIETY, January, 1862.

Subject given - "Light and Shade.")


She stepped upon Sicilian grass,
Demeter's daughter fresh and fair,
A child of light, a radiant lass,
And gamesome as the morning air.
The daffodils were fair to see,
They nodded lightly on the lea,
Persephone - Persephone!

Lo! one she marked of rarer growth
Than orchis or anemone;
For it the maiden left them both,
And parted from her company.
Drawn nigh she deemed it fairer still,
And stooped to gather by the rill
The daffodil, the daffodil.

What ailed the meadow that it shook?
What ailed the air of Sicily?
She wondered by the brattling brook,
And trembled with the trembling lea.
"The coal-black horses rise - they rise:

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