POETRY.

Evening Post, Volume LIV, Issue 99, 23 October 1897, Page 2 (Supplement)

POETRY.

These lines are by Jean Ingelow, the poetess, whose death was chronicled in July :— LOVE. 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 own lover — Hush, nightingale, hush ! O sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near ; For my love he is late 2 ' 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 Prom sycamore blossoms, or settle, or sleep ; You glow-worms, shine out and the pathwaji discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep ! Ah, my Bailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my lore 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.