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 | Poems By Jean Ingelow: Third Series |  |
‘Come hither, come hither.’ The broom was in blossom all over yon rise;
There went a wide murmur of brown bees about it with songs from the wood.
‘We shall never be younger! O love, let us forth, for the world 'neath our eyes,
Ay, the world is made young e'en as we, and right fair is her youth and right good.’
There went a wide murmur of brown bees about it with songs from the wood.
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Ay, the world is made young e'en as we, and right fair is her youth and right good.’
Then there fell the great yearning upon me, that never yet went into words;
While lovesome and moansome thereon spake and falter'd the dove to the dove.
And I came at her calling, ‘Inherit, inherit, and sing with the birds;’
I went up to the wood with the child of my heart and the wife of my love.
While lovesome and moansome thereon spake and falter'd the dove to the dove.
And I came at her calling, ‘Inherit, inherit, and sing with the birds;’
I went up to the wood with the child of my heart and the wife of my love.
O pure! O pathetic! Wild hyacinths drank it, the dream light, apace
Not a leaf moved at all 'neath the blue, they hung waiting for messages kind;
Tall cherry-trees dropped their white blossom that drifted no whit from its place,
For the south very far out to sea had the lulling low voice of the wind.
Not a leaf moved at all 'neath the blue, they hung waiting for messages kind;
Tall cherry-trees dropped their white blossom that drifted no whit from its place,
For the south very far out to sea had the lulling low voice of the wind.
And the child's dancing foot gave us part in the ravishment almost a pain,
An infinite tremor of life, a fond murmur that cried out on time,
Ah short! must all end in the doing and spend itself sweetly in vain,
And the promise be only fulfilment to lean from the height of its prime?
An infinite tremor of life, a fond murmur that cried out on time,
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And the promise be only fulfilment to lean from the height of its prime?
‘We shall never be younger;’ nay, mock me not, fancy, none call from yon tree;
They have thrown me the world they went over, went up, and, alas! for my part
I am left to grow old, and to grieve, and to change; but they change not with me;
They will never be older, the child of my love, and the wife of my heart.
Mrs. J.
They have thrown me the world they went over, went up, and, alas! for my part
I am left to grow old, and to grieve, and to change; but they change not with me;
They will never be older, the child of my love, and the wife of my heart.
I told you so!
Mrs. T.
(aside).
That did you, neighbour. Ay,
Partings, said you, and tears: I liked the song.
Mrs. G.
Who be these coming to the front to sing?
Mrs. J.
(aside).
Why, neighbour, these be sweethearts, so 'tis said,
And there was much ado to make her sing;
She would, and would not; and he wanted her,
And, mayhap, wanted to be seen with her.
'Tis Tomlin's pretty maid, his only one.
Mrs. G.
(aside).
I did not know the maid, so fair she looks.
Mrs. J.
(aside).
He's a right proper man she has at last;
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To court her after work hours, that he doth,
Not like her other—why, he'd let his work
Go all to wrack, and lay it to his love,
While he would sit and look, and look and sigh.
Her father sent him to the right-about.
‘If love,’ said he, ‘won't make a man of you,
Why, nothing will! 'Tis mainly that love's for.
The right sort makes,’ said he, ‘a lad a man;
The wrong sort makes,’ said he, ‘a man a fool.’
Vicar presents a young man and a girl.
| Poems By Jean Ingelow: Third Series | |