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 | Poems by Jean Ingelow |  |
‘O thou poor soul! it is the night—the night;
Against thy door drifts up the silent snow,
Blocking thy threshold: “Fall,” thou sayest, “fall, fall,
Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot.
Am not I fallen? Wake up, and pipe, O wind,
Dull wind, and beat and bluster at my door:
Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song,
For there is other music made to-night
That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still sea,
Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white waterfall.
O, I could long like thy cold icicles
Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift
And not complain, so I might melt at last
In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do!
Against thy door drifts up the silent snow,
Blocking thy threshold: “Fall,” thou sayest, “fall, fall,
Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot.
Am not I fallen? Wake up, and pipe, O wind,
Dull wind, and beat and bluster at my door:
Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song,
For there is other music made to-night
208
Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white waterfall.
O, I could long like thy cold icicles
Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift
And not complain, so I might melt at last
In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do!
| Poems by Jean Ingelow | |