Poem by Jean Ingelow

Fancy

O fancy, if thou flyest, come back anon,
Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's first word,
And fragrant as the feathers of that bird,
Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon.
I ask thee not to work, or sigh—play on,
From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred;
The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have stirred,
And waved memorial grass of Marathon.
Play, but be gentle, not as on that day
I saw thee running down the rims of doom
With stars thou hadst been stealing—while they lay
Smothered in light and blue—clasped to thy breast;
Bring rather to me in the firelit room
A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest. 

1. Perdita
2. Grand Is The Leisure Of The Earth
3. Scholar and Carpenter
4. The Beginning
5. The Measureless Gulfs Of Air Are Full Of Thee

Thomas Aird Fancy ("Thunder-palls through gorges trailing")

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