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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.

Jean Ingelow

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Jean Ingelow
Age: 77 †
Born: 1820
Born: March 17
Died: 1897
Died: July 20
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
England
Orris
Things
Thoughts
Childish
Would
Waiting
Drift
Like
Face
Asleep
Faces
Somewhat
Away
Flowers
Light
Opening
Come
Dear
Good
Flower

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From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is love To long for, pureness to desire, a mount Of consecration it were good to scale.
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People newly emerged from obscurity generally launch out into indiscriminate display.
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O fateful flower beside the rill- The Daffodil, the daffodil!
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What is thy thought? There is no miracle? There is a great one, which thou hast not read, And never shalt escape. Thyself, O man, Thou art the miracle. Ay, thou thyself, Being in the world and of the world, thyself, Hast breathed in breath from Him that made the world. Thou art thy Father's copy of Himself,-- Thou art thy Father's miracle.
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I have lived to thank God that all my prayers have not been answered.
Jean Ingelow
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The moon is bleached as white as wool, And just dropping under Every star is gone but three, And they hang far asunder,-- There's a sea-ghost all in gray, A tall shape of wonder!
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Reign, and keep life in this our deep desireOur only greatness is that we aspire.
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I am glad to think I am not bound to make the world go right, but only to discover and to do, with cheerful heart, the work that God appoints.
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O woman! thou wert fashioned to beguile: So have all sages said, all poets sung.
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I am athirst for God, the living God.
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You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven / That God has hidden your face?
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What change has made the pastures sweet And reached the daisies at my feet, And cloud that wears a golden hem? This lovely world, the hills, the sward-- They all look fresh, as if our Lord But yesterday had finished them.
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Man is the miracle in nature. God Is the One Miracle to man.
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And old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain.
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Work is its own best earthly meed, Else have we none more than the sea-born throng Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar.
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A healthful hunger for a great idea is the beauty and blessedness of life.
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I opened the doors of my heart. And behold, There was music within and a song, And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it long. I opened the doors of my heart. And behold, There was music that played itself out in aeolian notes: Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals tolled.
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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.
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There is but halting for the wearied foot The better way is hidden. Faith hath failed One stronger far than reason mastered her. It is not reason makes faith hard, but life.
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There's no dew left on the daisies and clover there's no rain left in heaven.
Jean Ingelow