| There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, |
| There's no rain left in heaven; |
| I've said my "seven times" over and over: |
| Seven times one are seven. |
| |
| I am old, so old I can write a letter; |
| My birthday lessons are done; |
| The lambs play always, they know no better, |
| They are only one times one. |
| |
| O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing |
| And shining so round and low; |
| You were bright! but your light is failing, |
| You are nothing now but a bow. |
| |
| You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, |
| That God has hidden your face? |
| I hope if you have, you'll soon be forgiven, |
| And shine again in your place. |
| |
| O velvet Bee, you're a dusty fellow; |
| You've powdered your legs with gold! |
| O brave Marshmary buds, rich and yellow, |
| Give me your money to hold! |
| |
| O Columbine, open your folded wrapper |
| Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! |
| O Cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper |
| That hangs in your clear green bell! |
| |
| And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, |
| I will not steal them away; |
| I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, |
| I am seven times one to-day. |
| |
| Jean Ingelow. |
| You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, |
| How many soever they be, |
| And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges, |
| Come over, come over to me. |
| |
| Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling |
| No magical sense conveys, |
| And bells have forgotten their old art of telling |
| The fortune of future days. |
| |
| "Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily. |
| While a boy listened alone; |
| Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily |
| All by himself on a stone. |
| |
| Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, |
| And mine, they are yet to be; |
| No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: |
| You leave the story to me. |
| |
| The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, |
| Preparing her hoods of snow: |
| She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: |
| Oh, children take long to grow. |
| |
| I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, |
| Nor long summer bide so late; |
| And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, |
| For some things are ill to wait. |
| |
| I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, |
| While dear hands are laid on my head: |
| "The child is a woman, the book may close over, |
| For all the lessons are said." |
| |
| I wait for my story—the birds cannot sing it, |
| Not one, as he sits on the tree; |
| The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it! |
| Such as I wish it to be. |
| |
| Jean Ingelow. |
| I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, |
| Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; |
| "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover— |
| Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait |
| Till I listen and hear |
| If a step draweth near, |
| For my love he is late! |
| |
| "The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, |
| A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, |
| The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: |
| To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?p> |
| Let the star-clusters grow, |
| Let the sweet waters flow. |
| And cross quickly to me. |
| |
| "You night-moths that hover where honey brims over |
| From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; |
| You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover |
| To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. |
| Ah, my sailor, make haste, |
| For the time runs to waste, |
| And my love lieth deep, |
| |
| "Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, |
| I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." |
| By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover; |
| Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight; |
| But I'll love him more, more |
| Than e'er wife loved before, |
| Be the days dark or bright. |
| |
| Jean Ingelow. |