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The Beginning.

by Jean Ingelow

They tell strange things of the primeval earth,

But things that be are never strange to those

Among them. And we know what it was like,

Many are sure they walked in it; the proof

This, the all gracious, all admired whole

Called life, called world, called thought, was all as one.

Nor yet divided more than that old earth

Among the tribes. Self was not fully come -

Self was asleep, embedded in the whole.

I too dwelt once in a primeval world,

Such as they tell of, all things wonderful;

Voices, ay visions, people grand and tall

Thronged in it, but their talk was overhead

And bore scant meaning, that one wanted not

Whose thought was sight as yet unbound of words,

This kingdom of heaven having entered through

Being a little child.

Such as can see,

Why should they doubt? The childhood of a race.

The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubt

Nor fear. Where all is super-natural

The guileless heart doth feed on it, no more

Afraid than angels are of heaven.

Who saith

Another life, the next one shall not have

Another childhood growing gently thus,

Able to bear the poignant sweetness, take

The rich long awful measure of its peace,

Endure the presence sublime.

I saw

Once in that earth primeval, once - a face,

A little face that yet I dream upon.'

'Of this world was it?'

'Not of this world - no,

In the beginning - for methinks it was

In the beginning but an if you ask

How long ago, time was not then, nor date

For marking. It was always long ago,

E'en from the first recalling of it, long

And long ago.

And I could walk, and went,

Led by the hand through a long mead at morn,

Bathed in a ravishing excess of light.

It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven,

Sank deep into the meadow grass. The sun

Gave every blade a bright and a dark side,

Glitter'd on buttercups that topped them, slipped

To soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay.

The wide oaks in their early green stood still

And took delight in it. Brown specks that made

Very sweet noises quivered in the blue;

Then they came down and ran along the brink

Of a long pool, and they were birds.

The pool

Pranked at the edges with pale peppermint,

A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowers

And flags blue-green was lying below. This all

Was sight it condescended not to words

Till memory kissed the charmed dream.

The mead

Hollowing and heaving, in the hollows fair

With dropping roses fell away to it,

A strange sweet place; upon its further side

Some people gently walking took their way

Up to a wood beyond; and also bells

Sang, floated in the air, hummed - what you will.'

'Then it was Sunday?'

'Sunday was not yet;

It was a holiday, for all the days

Were holy. It was not our day of rest

(The earth for all her rolling asks not rest,

For she was never weary).

It was sweet,

Full of dear leisure and perennial peace,

As very old days when life went easily,

Before mankind had lost the wise, the good

Habit of being happy.

For the pool

A beauteous place it was as might be seen,

That led one down to other meads, and had

Clouds and another sky. I thought to go

Deep down in it, and walk that steep clear slope.

Then she who led me reached the brink, her foot

Staying to talk with one who met her there.

Here were fresh marvels, sailing things whose vans

Floated them on above the flowering flags.

We moved a little onward, paused again,

And here there was a break in these, and here

There came the vision; for I stooped to gaze

So far as my small height would let me - gaze

Into that pool to see the fishes dart,

And in a moment from her under hills

Came forth a little child who lived down there,

Looked up at me and smiled. We could not talk,

But looked and loved each other. I a hand

Held out to her, so she to me, but ah,

She would not come. Her home, her little bed,

Was doubtless under that soft shining thing

The water, and she wanted not to run

Among red sorrel spires, and fill her hand

In the dry warmed grass with cowslip buds.

Awhile our feeding hearts all satisfied,

Took in the blue of one another's eyes,

Two dimpled creatures, rose-lipped innocent.

But when we fain had kissed - O! the end came,

For snatched aloft, held in the nurse's arms,

She parting with her lover I was borne

Far from that little child.

And no one knew

She lived down there, but only I; and none

Sought for her, but I yearned for her and left

Part of myself behind, as the lambs leave

Their wool upon a thorn.'

'And was she seen

Never again, nor known for what she was?'

'Never again, for we did leave anon

The pasture and the pool. I know not where

They lie, and sleep a heaven on earth, but know

From thenceforth yearnings for a lost delight;

On certain days I dream about her still.'