 | Poems by Jean Ingelow |  |
TO ---.
Strange was the doom of Heracles, whose shadeHad dwelling in dim Hades the unblest,
While yet his form and presence sat a guest
With the old immortals when the feast was made.
Thine like, thus differs; form and presence laid
In this dim chamber of enforcèd rest,
It is the unseen ‘shade’ which, risen, hath pressed
Above all heights where feet Olympian strayed.
My soul admires to hear thee speak; thy thought
Falls from a high place like an August star,
Or some great eagle from his air-hung rings—
When swooping past a snow-cold mountain scar—
Down the steep slope of a long sunbeam brought,
He stirs the wheat with the steerage of his wings.
| Poems by Jean Ingelow | |