Poems by Jean Ingelow, In Two Volumes, Volume I. by Jean Ingelow
page 69 of 413 (16%)
page 69 of 413 (16%)
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These flowery branches round us interlace;
The ground is hollowed like a mossy nest: Who talks of fame while the religious Spring Offers the incense of her blossoming? There was a Poet, Madam, once (said he), Who, while he walked at sundown in a lane, Took to his heart the hope that destiny Had singled him this guerdon to obtain, That by the power of his sweet minstrelsy Some hearts for truth and goodness he should gain. And charm some grovellers to uplift their eyes And suddenly wax conscious of the skies. "Master, good e'en to ye!" a woodman said, Who the low hedge was trimming with his shears. "This hour is fine"--the Poet bowed his head. "More fine," he thought, "O friend! to me appears The sunset than to you; finer the spread Of orange lustre through these azure spheres, Where little clouds lie still, like flocks of sheep, Or vessels sailing in God's other deep. "O finer far! What work so high as mine, Interpreter betwixt the world and man, Nature's ungathered pearls to set and shrine, The mystery she wraps her in to scan; Her unsyllabic voices to combine, And serve her with such love as poets can; With mortal words, her chant of praise to bind, |
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