 | Poems by Jean Ingelow |  |
245
COLD AND QUIET.
Cold, my dear,—cold and quiet.
In their cups on yonder lea,
Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet;
So the moss enfoldeth thee.
‘Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower—
Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree;
And when our children sleep,’ she sighed, ‘at the dusk hour,
And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me!’
In their cups on yonder lea,
Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet;
So the moss enfoldeth thee.
‘Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower—
Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree;
And when our children sleep,’ she sighed, ‘at the dusk hour,
And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me!’
Lost, my dear? Lost! nay, deepest
Love is that which loseth least;
Through the night-time while thou sleepest,
Still I watch the shrouded east.
Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth,
‘Lost’ is no word for such a love as mine;
Love from her past to me a present giveth,
And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine.
Love is that which loseth least;
Through the night-time while thou sleepest,
Still I watch the shrouded east.
Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth,
‘Lost’ is no word for such a love as mine;
Love from her past to me a present giveth,
And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine.
246
Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth
That which was, and not in vain:
Sacred have I kept, God knoweth,
Love's last words atween us twain.
‘Hold by our past, my only love, my lover;
Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me!’
Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over.
Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee.
That which was, and not in vain:
Sacred have I kept, God knoweth,
Love's last words atween us twain.
‘Hold by our past, my only love, my lover;
Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me!’
Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over.
Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee.
| Poems by Jean Ingelow | |