Seven Times One

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven; I've said my "seven times" over and over: Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done; The lambs play always, they know no better, They are only one times one.

O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low; You were bright! but your light is failing, You are nothing now but a bow.

You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, That G.o.d has hidden your face?

I hope if you have, you'll soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place.

O velvet Bee, you're a dusty fellow; You've powdered your legs with gold!

O brave Marshmary buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold!

O Columbine, open your folded wrapper Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!

O Cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, I will not steal them away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, I am seven times one to-day.

_Jean Ingelow._

Seven Times Two

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges, Come over, come over to me.

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days.

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily.

While a boy listened alone; Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, Preparing her hoods of snow: She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: Oh, children take long to grow.

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late; And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head: "The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said."

I wait for my story--the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree; The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it!

Such as I wish it to be.

_Jean Ingelow._

Seven Times Three

LOVE

I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover-- Hush, nightingale, hush! O sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, For my love he is late!

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cl.u.s.ter of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?

Let the star-cl.u.s.ters grow, Let the sweet waters flow.

And cross quickly to me.

"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep; You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep.

Ah, my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep,

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night."

By the sycamore pa.s.sed he, and through the white clover; Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight; But I'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright.

_Jean Ingelow._

Seven Times Four

MATERNITY

Heigh-ho! daisies and b.u.t.tercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall!

When the wind wakes, how they rock in the gra.s.ses, And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small!

Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own la.s.ses Eager to gather them all.

Heigh-ho! daisies and b.u.t.tercups!

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow,"-- Sing once, and sing it again.

Heigh-ho! daisies and b.u.t.tercups, Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow, O bonny brown son, and O sweet little daughters, Maybe he thinks on you now!

Heigh-ho! daisies and b.u.t.tercups, Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall!

A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall!

Send down on their pleasure smiles pa.s.sing its measure, G.o.d that is over us all!

_Jean Ingelow._