Jean Ingelow (17 March 1820 – 20 July 1897) was an English poet and novelist. She also wrote several stories for children.
A birthday:-and now a day that rose With much of hope, with meaning rife- A thoughtful day from dawn to close: The middle day of human life.
Man is the miracle in nature. God Is the One Miracle to man. Behold, "There is a God," thou sayest. Thou sayest well: In that thou sayest all. To Be is more Of wonderful, than being, to have wrought, Or reigned, or rested.
Tears are the showers that fertilize this world.
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.
For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, How fine, how blest a thing is work! For work does good when reasons fail.
The red Sahara in an angry glow, With amber fogs, across its hollows trailed Long strings of camels, gloomy-eyed and slow.
How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.
we wish for more in life rather than more of it.
O fateful flower beside the rill- The Daffodil, the daffodil!
You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven That God has hidden your face?
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.
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!
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.
When sparrows build and the leaves break forth My old sorrow wakes and cries.
People newly emerged from obscurity generally launch out into indiscriminate display.
I have lived to thank God that all my prayers have not been answered.
And old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain.
It is not reason which makes faith hard, but life.
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.