Quotes
Quotes - Ingelow
Crowds of bees are giddy with clover
Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet,
Crowds of larks at their matins hang over,
Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.
But two are walking apart forever
And wave their hands for a mute farewell.
A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.
Man dwells apart, though not alone,
He walks among his peers unread;
The best of thoughts which he hath known
For lack of listeners are not said.
How short our happy days appear!
How long the sorrowful!
To bear, to nurse, to rear,
To watch and then to lose,
To see my bright ones disappear,
Drawn up like morning dews.
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Ply all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe The Brides of Enderby."
And O the buttercups! that field O' the cloth of gold, when pennons swam-- Where France set up his lilied shield, His oriflamb, And Henry's lion-standard rolled: What was it to their matchless sheen, Their million million drops of gold Among the green!
Against her ankles as she trod The lucky buttercups did nod.
"O fateful flower beside the rill-- The Daffodil, the daffodil!"
And bitter waxed the fray; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way.
And old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain.
How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.
Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come was there Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, When childish thoughts, like flowers would drift away.
Man is the miracle in nature. God Is the One Miracle to man. Behold, "There is a God," thou sayest. Thou sayest well: In that thou sayest all. To Be is more Of wonderful, than being, to have wrought, Or reigned, or rested.
Such a slender moon, going up and up, Waxing so fast from night to night, And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, And hold to my two lips life's best of wine.
The moon looks upon many night flowers; the night flowers see but one moon.
When sparrows build and the leaves break forth My old sorrow wakes and cries.
