Song In Three Parts. by Jean Ingelow — Stanza

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Song In Three Parts.

by Jean Ingelow

I.

The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather,

'O most sweet wear;

Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me,

Four am I fair,'

Quoth the brown bee

'In thy white wear

Four thou art fair.

A mystery

Of honeyed snow

In scented air

The bee lines flow

Straight unto thee.

Great boon and bliss

All pure I wis,

And sweet to grow

Ay, so to give

That many live.

Now as for me,

I,' quoth the bee,

'Have not to give,

Through long hours sunny

Gathering I live:

Aye debonair

Sailing sweet air

After my fare,

Bee-bread and honey.

In thy deep coombe,

O thou white broom,

Where no leaves shake,

Brake,

Bent nor clover,

I a glad rover,

Thy calms partake,

While winds of might

From height to height

Go bodily over.

Till slanteth light,

And up the rise

Thy shadow lies,

A shadow of white,

A beauty-lender

Pathetic, tender.

Short is thy day?

Answer with 'Nay,'

Longer the hours

That wear thy flowers

Than all dull, cold

Years manifold

That gift withhold.

A long liver,

O honey-giver,

Thou by all showing

Art made, bestowing,

I envy not

Thy greater lot,

Nor thy white wear.

But, as for me,

I,' quoth the bee,

'Never am fair.'

II.

The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness brooding

Deeply and long,

'Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. Alas! all's over,

O lost my song.'

One in the tree,

'Hush now! Let be:

The song at ending

Left my long tending

Over als'.

Let be, let us go

Across the wan sea.

The little ones care not,

And I fare not

Amiss with thee.

Thou hast sung all,

This hast thou had.

Love, be not sad;

It shall befall

Assuredly,

When the bush buddeth

And the bank studdeth -

Where grass is sweet

And damps do fleet,

Her delicate beds

With daisy heads

That the Stars Seven

Leaned down from heaven

Shall sparkling mark

In the warm dark

Thy most dear strain

Which ringeth aye true -

Piercing vale, croft

Lifted aloft

Dropt even as dew

With a sweet quest

To her on the nest

When damps we love

Fall from above.

"Art thou asleep?

Answer me, answer me,

Night is so deep

Thy right fair form

I cannot see;

Answer me, answer me,

Are the eggs warm?

Is't well with thee?"

Ay, this shall be

Assuredly.

Ay, thou full fain

In the soft rain

Shalt sing again.'

III.

A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken,

Her good days o'er;

'Seven sweet years of my life did I live belov'd,

Seven - no more.'

Then Echo woke - and spoke

'No more - no more,'

And a wave broke

On the sad shore

When Echo said

'No more,'

Nought else made reply,

Nor land, nor loch, nor sky

Did any comfort try,

But the wave spread

Echo's faint tone

Alone,

All down the desolate shore,

'No more - no more.'