Poet's Nook Seasonal

Ipswitch

As the Upstate is finally blessed with sweater weather and the smell of tailgating in the air, football rivalries are growing intense. Witches and goblins gather and stand ready to invade us with Halloween tricks – or treats. Ipswitch is a classical poem that holds its own special place (genre) in literature. It tastes like Halloween: Ipswitch is in England, believed to be the first port city attacked by Vikings centuries ago, and to this day still has twelve medieval churches. The poet,  a journalist, was born before the Civil War and died forty-five years later. Ipswitch is my all-time favorite poem because it is a showcase of form, rhythm, meter, theme, tone, imagery, etc. It is full of life lessons, sentiment, and its last line is an October surprise! Ipswitch is in the public domain.

Ipswitch

By Eugene Field

In Ipswich nights are cool and fair,

   And the voice that comes from the yonder sea

Sings to the quaint old mansions there

   Of “the time, the time that used to be”;

And the quaint old mansions rock and groan,

And they seem to say in an undertone,

With half a sight and with half a moan:

   “It was, but it never again will be.”

In Ipswich witches weave at night

   Their magic spells with impish glee;

They shriek and laugh in their demon flight

   From the old Main House to the frightened sea.

And ghosts of eld come out to weep

Over the town that is fast asleep;

And they sob and they wail, as on they creep:

   “It was, but it never again will be.”

In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break Hill

   Over against the calling sea;

And through the nights so deep and chill

   Watcheth a maiden constantly,—

Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear

Over the roar of the waves anear

The pitiful cry of a far-off year:

   “It was, but it never again will be.”

In Ipswich once a witch I knew,—

   An artless Saxon witch was she;

By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue,

   Sweet was the spell she cast on me.

Alas! but the years have wrought me ill,

And the heart that is old and battered and chill

Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill

   What was, but never again can be.

Dear Anna, I would not conjure down

   The ghost that cometh to solace me;

I love to think of old Ipswich town,

   Where somewhat better than friends were we;

For with every thought of the dear old place

Cometh again the tender grace

Of a Saxon witch’s pretty face,

   As it was, and is, and ever shall be.

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