Love and Longing in an Old New England Town

Eternal Echoes: A Love Lost but Never Forgotten

Ipswich

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.

Eugene Field's poem "Ipswich" is like a haunted lullaby, conjuring up a town caught between the living and the dead, the past and the present. Field paints Ipswich as a place where memories linger like ghosts, and even the homes seem to carry a heavy nostalgia, rocking and groaning under the weight of old stories. There's a strange beauty here. These images give me a feeling of quiet yet unease. It is a story that interplays between past and present.

Field weaves witches and ghosts into the town's fabric as though they belong there, taking part in a nightly ritual of shrieks and laughter that roll through the night sky. The witches flit around like dark shadows, casting spells and filling the air with wild energy. These supernatural touches don't feel jarring. They feel woven into the place, like threads in a tapestry. Ipswich seems to exist as much in the memories of what happened long ago as in the present, a place where time seems loose, where the past might just peek through into today.

Field adds a touch of romance. He describes a maiden who waits, haunted by a cry from long ago. It feels like a story within the story, a tale of unrequited love or loss that lingers even in death. There is a sense of love that transcends time, and waiting for something lost long ago adds a tender sadness to the poem.

Then, the poet brings a personal memory into the poem. We meet his "Saxon witch," a girl he loved, who cast a spell on him with her flaxen hair and blue eyes. It's not a spell made of potions or dark magic, but the kind that young love casts magic that stays many years later. He returns to those moments, longing for "what was, but never again can be."

I know that aching sweetness of memory.

"Ipswich" feels like a tribute to the power of memory, both haunted and comforting, beautiful and bittersweet. These are feelings with which most of us are familiar. For Field, Ipswich isn't just a town. It's a place where the past is as alive as the present, letting him hold on to that "Saxon witch's pretty face," as if love "ever shall be."