 | Poems By Jean Ingelow: Third Series |  |
III
A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken,
Her good days o'er;
‘Seven sweet years of my life did I live belovèd,
Seven—no more.’
Her good days o'er;
‘Seven sweet years of my life did I live belovèd,
Seven—no more.’
Then Echo woke—and spoke
‘No more—no more,’
And a wave broke
On the sad shore
When Echo said
‘No more.’
Nought else made reply,
Nor land, nor loch, nor sky
Did any comfort try,
But the wave spread
Echo's faint tone
Alone,
All down the desolate shore,
‘No more—no more.’
‘No more—no more,’
And a wave broke
On the sad shore
223
‘No more.’
Nought else made reply,
Nor land, nor loch, nor sky
Did any comfort try,
But the wave spread
Echo's faint tone
Alone,
All down the desolate shore,
‘No more—no more.’
| Poems By Jean Ingelow: Third Series | |