poet
and novelist.
Born at Boston, Lincolnshire, she was the daughter of William Ingelow, a banker. As a girl she contributed verses and tales to magazines under the pseudonym of Orris, but her first (anonymous) volume, A Rhyming Chronicle of Incidents and Feelings, did not appear until her thirtieth year. This was called charming by Tennyson
, who declared he should like to know the author; they later became friends.
Jean Ingelow followed this book of verse in 1851 with a story, Allerton and Dreux, but it was the publication of her Poems in 1863 which suddenly made her a popular writer.
The while He sits whose name is Love, And waits, as Noah did, for the dove, To wit if she would fly to him. He waits for us, while, houseless things, We beat about with bruised wings On the dark floods and water-springs, The ruined world, the desolate sea; With open windows from the prime All night, all day, He waits sublime,Until the fulness of the time Decreed from His eternity.
Reign, and keep life in this our deep desire Our only greatness is that we aspire.
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 breathThan 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.