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Mopsa the Fairy

By Jean Ingelow
Ingelow, Jean (1820-1897)
  
[dedication]

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CHAPTER I. ABOVE THE CLOUDS.
  
[‘And can this be my own world?]
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CHAPTER III WINDING-UP TIME.
  
[‘Wake, baillie, wake! the crafts are out]
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CHAPTER IV. BEES AND OTHER FELLOW-CREATURES.
  
[The dove laid some little sticks]
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CHAPTER V. THE PARROT IN HIS SHAWL.
  
[My good man—he's an old, old man—]
  
[My fair lady's a dear, dear lady—]
  
[Yet my fair lady's my own, own lady]
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CHAPTER VI. THE TOWN WITH NOBODY IN IT.
  
[‘Master,’ quoth the auld hound]
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CHAPTER VIII. A STORY.
  
[In the night she told a story]
  
[Drop, drop from the leaves of lign aloes]
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CHAPTER IX. AFTER THE PARTY.
  
[When I sit on market-days amid the comers and the goers]
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CHAPTER X. MOPSA LEARNS HER LETTERS.
  
[The marten flew to the finch's nest]
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CHAPTER XI. GOOD MORNING, SISTER.
  
[Sweet is childhood—childhood's over]
  
[On the rocks by Aberdeen]
  
LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT.
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CHAPTER XII. THEY RUN AWAY FROM OLD MOTHER FATE.
  
[A land that living warmth disowns]
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CHAPTER XIII. MELON SEEDS.
  
[Little babe, while burns the west]
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CHAPTER XIV. REEDS AND RUSHES.
  
[Turn your back on the light, and you'll follow a shadow.]
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CHAPTER XV. THE QUEEN'S WAND.
  
[The prince shall to the chase again]
  
[Though the sun shine brightly]
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CHAPTER XVI. FAILURE.
  
[We are much bound to them that do succeed]
  
[‘He had brought them,’ he said, ‘some meat on a bone]
  
[One morning, oh! so early, my belovèd, my belovèd]
  
[Who pipes upon the long green hill]

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[In the night she told a story]

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!
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