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Quoth the Ocean, Dawn! O fairest, clearest, Touch me with thy golden fingers bland For I have no smile till thou appearest For the lovely land.

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
Smile
Fairest
Touch
Bland
Ocean
Dawn
Land
Till
Golden
Lovely
Thou
Quoth
Fingers
Clearest

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Youth! youth! how buoyant are thy hopes! they turn, like marigolds, toward the sunny side.
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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.
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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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You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven / That God has hidden your face?
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People newly emerged from obscurity generally launch out into indiscriminate display.
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A healthful hunger for a great idea is the beauty and blessedness of life.
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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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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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There's no dew left on the daisies and clover there's no rain left in heaven.
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When I remember something which I had, But which is gone, and I must do without, I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout It makes me sigh to think on it,--but yet My days will not be better days, should I forget.
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And old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain.
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we wish for more in life rather than more of it.
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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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I am athirst for God, the living God.
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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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When our thoughts are born, Though they be good and humble, one should mind How they are reared, or some will go astray And shame their mother.
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I don't want to die. But I want to be dead.
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O fateful flower beside the rill- The Daffodil, the daffodil!
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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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Man is the miracle in nature. God Is the One Miracle to man.
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