Complete Poetical Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

  Was yellow like ripe corn.

  Herseemed she scarce had been a day

  One of God’s choristers;

  The wonder was not yet quite gone 15

  From that still look of hers;

  Albeit, to them she left, her day

  Had counted as ten years.

  (To one, it is ten years of years:

  ... Yet now, and in this place 20

  Surely she leaned o’er me - her hair

  Fell all about my face....

  Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves.

  The whole year sets apace.)

  It was the rampart of God’s house 25

  That she was standing on;

  By God built over the sheer depth

  The which is Space begun;

  So high, that looking downward thence

  She scarce could see the sun. 30

  It lies in Heaven, across the flood

  Of ether, as a bridge.

  Beneath, the tides of day and night

  With flame and darkness ridge

  The void, as low as where this earth 35

  Spins like a fretful midge.

  Heard hardly, some of her new friends

  Amid their loving games

  Spake evermore among themselves

  Their virginal chaste names;

  And the souls mounting up to God

  Went by her like thin flames.

  And still she bowed herself and stooped

  Out of the circling charm;

  Until her bosom must have made

  The bar she leaned on warm,

  And the lilies lay as if asleep

  Along her bended arm.

  From the fixed place of Heaven she saw

  Time like a pulse shake fierce

  Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove

  Within the gulf to pierce

  Its path: and now she spoke as when

  The stars sang in their spheres.

  The sun was gone now; the curled moon

  Was like a little feather

  Fluttering far down the gulf; and now

  She spoke through the still weather.

  Her voice was like the voice the stars

  Had when they sang together.

  (Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird’s song,

  Strove not her accents there,

  Fain to be hearkened? When those bells

  Possessed the mid-day air,

  Strove not her steps to reach my side

  Down all the echoing stair?)

  ‘I wish that he were come to me,

  For he will come,’ she said.

  ‘Have I not prayed in Heaven? - on earth,

  Lord, Lord, has he not pray’d?

  Are not two prayers a perfect strength?

  And shall I feel afraid?

  ‘When round his head the aureole clings,

  And he is clothed in white,

  I’ll take his hand and go with him

  To the deep wells of light;

  We will step down as to a stream,

  And bathe there in God’s sight.

  ‘We two will stand beside that shrine,

  Occult, withheld, untrod, 80

  Whose lamps are stirred continually

  With prayer sent up to God;

  And see our old prayers, granted, melt

  Each like a little cloud.

  ‘We two will lie i’ the shadow of 85

  That living mystic tree

  Within whose secret growth the Dove

  Is sometimes felt to be,

  While every leaf that His plumes touch

  Saith His Name audibly. 90

  ‘And I myself will teach to him,

  I myself, lying so,

  The songs I sing here; which his voice

  Shall pause in, hushed and slow,

  And find some knowledge at each pause, 95

  Or some new thing to know.’

  (Alas! We two, we two, thou say’st!

  Yea, one wast thou with me

  That once of old. But shall God lift

  To endless unity 100

  The soul whose likeness with thy soul

  Was but its love for thee?)

  ‘We two,’ she said, ‘will seek the groves

  Where the lady Mary is,

  With her five handmaidens, whose names 105

  Are five sweet symphonies,

  Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,

  Margaret and Rosalys.

  ‘Circlewise sit they, with bound locks

  And foreheads garlanded; 110

  Into the fine cloth white like flame

  Weaving the golden thread,

  To fashion the birth-robes for them

  Who are just born, being dead.

  ‘He shall fear, haply and be dumb:

  Then will I lay my cheek

  To his, and tell about our love,

  Not once abashed or weak:

  And the dear Mother will approve

  My pride, and let me speak.

  ‘Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,

  To Him round whom all souls

  Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads

  Bowed with their aureoles:

  And angels meeting us shall sing

  To their citherns and citoles.

  ‘There will I ask of Christ the Lord

  Thus much for him and me: —

  Only to live as once on earth

  With Love, - only to be,

  As then awhile, for ever now

  Together, I and he.’

  She gazed and listened and then said,

  Less sad of speech than mild, -

  ‘All this is when he comes.’ She ceased.

  The light thrilled towards her, fill’d

  With angels in strong level flight.

  Her eyes prayed, and she smil’d.

  (I saw her smile.) But soon their path

  Was vague in distant spheres:

  And then she cast her arms along

  The golden barriers,

  And laid her face between her hands,

  And wept. (I heard her tears.)

  THE HONEYSUCKLE

  I plucked a honeysuckle where

  The hedge on high is quick with thorn,

  And climbing for the prize, was torn,

  And fouled my feet in quag-water;

  And by the thorns and by the wind

  The blossom that I took was thinn’d,

  And yet I found it sweet and fair.

  Thence to a richer growth I came,

  Where, nursed in mellow intercourse,

  The honeysuckles sprang by scores,

  Not harried like my single stem,

  All virgin lamps of scent and dew.

  So from my hand that first I threw,

  Yet plucked not any more of them.

  THE SEA-LIMITS (1870 VERSION)

  Consider the sea’s listless chime:

  Time’s self it is, made audible, -

  The murmur of the earth’s own shell.

  Secret continuance sublime

  Is the sea’s end: our sight may pass 5

  No furlong further. Since time was,

  This sound hath told the lapse of time.

  No quiet, which is death’s, - it hath

  The mournfulness of ancient life,

  Enduring always at dull strife. 10

  As the world’s heart of rest and wrath,

  Its painful pulse is in the sands.

  Last utterly, the whole sky stands,

  Grey and not known, along its path.

  Listen alone beside the sea, 15

  Listen alone among the woods;

  Those voices of twin solitudes

  Shall have one sound alike to thee:

  Hark where the murmurs of thronged men

  Surge and sink back and surge again, - 20

  Still the one voice of wave and tree.

  Gather a shell from the strown beach

  And listen at its lips: they sighr />
  The same desire and mystery,

  The echo of the whole sea’s speech. 25

  And all mankind is thus at heart

  Not anything but what thou art:

  And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each.

  A MATCH WITH THE MOON

  Weary already, weary miles to-night

  I walked for bed: and so, to get some ease,

  I dogged the flying moon with similes.

  And like a wisp she doubled on my sight

  In ponds; and caught in tree-tops like a kite: 5

  And in a globe of film all liquorish

  Swam full-faced like a silly silver fish; -

  Last like a bubble shot the welkin’s height

  Where my road turned, and got behind me, and sent

  My wizened shadow craning round at me, 10

  And jeered, ‘So, step the measure, - one two three!’-

  And if I faced on her, looked innocent.

  But just at parting, halfway down a dell,

  She kissed me for good-night. So you’ll not tell.

  STRATTON WATER

  ‘O have you seen the Stratton flood

  That’s great with rain to-day?

  It runs beneath your wall, Lord Sands,

  Full of the new-mown hay.

  ‘I led your hounds to Hutton bank 5

  To bathe at early morn:

  They got their bath by Borrowbrake

  Above the standing corn.’

  Out from the castle-stair Lord Sands

  Looked up the western lea; 10

  The rook was grieving on her nest,

  The flood was round her tree.

  Over the castle-wall Lord Sands

  Looked down the eastern hill:

  The stakes swam free among the boats, 15

  The flood was rising still.

  ‘What’s yonder far below that lies

  So white against the slope?’

  ‘O it’s a sail o’ your bonny barks

  The waters have washed up.’ 20

  ‘But I have never a sail so white,

  And the water’s not yet there.’

  ‘O it’s the swans o’ your bonny lake

  The rising flood doth scare.’

  ‘The swans they would not hold so still,’ 25

  So high they would not win.’

  ‘O it’s Joyce my wife has spread her smock

  And fears to fetch it in.’

  ‘Nay, knave, it’s neither sail nor swans,

  Nor aught that you can say; 30

  For though your wife might leave her smock,

  Herself she’d bring away.’

  Lord Sands has passed the turret-stair,

  The court, and yard, and all;

  The kine were in the byre that day, 35

  The nags were in the stall.

  Lord Sands has won the weltering slope

  Whereon the white shape lay:

  The clouds were still above the hill,

  And the shape was still as they. 40

  Oh pleasant is the gaze of life

  And sad is death’s blind head;

  But awful are the living eyes

  In the face of one thought dead!

  ‘In God’s name, Janet, is it me 45

  Thy ghost has come to seek?’

  ‘Nay, wait another hour, Lord Sands, -

  Be sure my ghost shall speak.’

  A moment stood he as a stone,

  Then grovelled to his knee. 50

  ‘O Janet, O my love, my love,

  Rise up and come with me!’

  ‘O once before you bade me come,

  And it’s here you have brought me!’

  ‘O many’s the sweet word, Lord Sands, 55

  You’ve spoken oft to me;

  But all that I have from you to-day

  Is the rain on my body.

  ‘And many’s the good gift, Lord Sands,

  You’ve promised oft to me; 60

  But the gift of yours I keep to-day

  Is the babe in my body.

  ‘O it’s not in any earthly bed

  That first my babe I’ll see;

  For I have brought my body here 65

  That the flood may cover me.’

  His face was close against her face,

  His hands of hers were fain:

  O her wet cheeks were hot with tears,

  Her wet hands cold with rain. 70

  ‘They told me you were dead, Janet, -

  How could I guess the lie?’

  ‘They told me you were false, Lord Sands, -

  What could I do but die?’

  ‘Now keep you well, my brother Giles, - 75

  Through you I deemed her dead!

  As wan as your towers be to-day

  To-morrow they’ll be red.

  ‘Look down, look down, my false mother,

  That bade me not to grieve: 80

  You’ll look up when our marriage fires

  Are lit to-morrow eve.

  ‘O more than one and more than two

  The sorrow of this shall see:

  But it’s to-morrow, love, for them, - 85

  To-day’s for thee and me.’

  He’s drawn her face between his hands

  And her pale mouth to his:

  No bird that was so still that day

  Chirps sweeter than his kiss. 90

  The flood was creeping round their feet.

  ‘O Janet, come away!

  The hall is warm for the marriage-rite,

  The bed for the birthday.’

  ‘Nay, but I hear your mother cry, 95

  “Go bring this bride to bed!

  And would she christen her babe unborn

  So wet she comes to wed?”

  ‘I’ll be your wife to cross your door

  And meet your mother’s e’e. 100

  We plighted troth to wed i’ the kirk,

  And it’s there I’ll wed with ye.’

  He’s ta’en her by the short girdle

  And by the dripping sleeve:

  ‘Go fetch Sir Jock my mother’s priest, - 105

  You’ll ask of him no leave.

  ‘O it’s one half-hour to reach the kirk

  And one for the marriage-rite;

  And kirk and castle and castle-lands

  Shall be our babe’s to-night.’ 110

  ‘The flood’s in the kirkyard, Lord Sands,

  And round the belfry-stair.’

  ‘I bade ye fetch the priest,’ he said,

  ‘Myself shall bring him there.

  ‘It’s for the lilt of wedding bells 115

  We’ll have the hail to pour,

  And for the clink of bridle-reins

  The plashing of the oar.’

  Beneath them on the nether hill

  A boat was floating wide: 120

  Lord Sands swam out and caught the oars

  And rowed to the hill-side.

  He’s wrapped her in a green mantle

  And set her softly in;

  Her hair was wet upon her face, 125

  Her face was grey and thin;

  And Oh!’ she said, ‘lie still, my babe,

  It’s out you must not win!’

  But woe’s my heart for Father John!

  As hard as he might pray, 130

  There seemed no help but Noah’s ark

  Or Jonah’s fish that day.

  The first strokes that the oars struck

  Were over the broad leas;

  The next strokes that the oars struck 135

  They pushed beneath the trees;

  The last stroke that the oars struck,

  The good boat’s head was met,

  And there the gate of the kirkyard

  Stood like a ferry-gate. 140

  He’s set his hand upon the bar

  And lightly leaped within:

  He’s lifted her to his left shoulder,

  Her knees beside his chin.

  The graves lay deep beneath the flood
145

  Under the rain alone;

  And when the foot-stone made him slip,

  He held by the head-stone.

  The empty boat thrawed i’ the wind

  Against the postern tied. 150

  ‘Hold still, you’ve brought my love with me,

  You shall take back my bride.’

  But woe’s my heart for Father John

  And the saints he clamoured to!

  There’s never a saint but Christopher 155

  Might hale such buttocks through!

  And Oh!’ she said, ‘on men’s shoulders

  I well had thought to wend,

  And well to travel with a priest,

  But not to have cared or ken’d. 160

  ‘And oh!’ she said, ‘it’s well this way

  That I thought to have fared, -

  Not to have lighted at the kirk

  But stopped in the kirkyard.

  ‘For it’s oh and oh I prayed to God, 165

  Whose rest I hoped to win,

  That when to-night at your board-head

  You’d bid the feast begin,

  This water past your window-sill

  Might bear my body in.’ 170

  Now make the white bed warm and soft

  And greet the merry morn.

  The night the mother should have died

  The young son shall be born.

  A VENETIAN PASTORAL, BY GIORGIONE IN THE LOUVRE (1870 VERSION)

  Water, for anguish of the solstice: - nay,

  But dip the vessel slowly, - nay, but lean

  And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in

  Reluctant. Hush! Beyond all depth away

  The heat lies silent at the brink of day: 5

  Now the hand trails upon the viol-string

  That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing,

  Sad with the whole of pleasure. Whither stray

  Her eyes now, from whose mouth the slim pipes creep

  And leave it pouting, while the shadowed grass 10

  Is cool against her naked side? Let be:-

  Say nothing now unto her lest she weep,

  Nor name this ever. Be it as it was, -

  Life touching lips with Immortality.

  LOVE’S NOCTURN

  Master of the murmuring courts

  Where the shapes of sleep convene! -

  Lo! my spirit here exhorts

  All the powers of thy demesne

  For their aid to woo my queen. 5

  What reports

  Yield thy jealous courts unseen?

  Vaporous, unaccountable,

  Dreamland lies forlorn of light,

  Hollow like a breathing shell. 10

  Ah! that from all dreams I might

  Choose one dream and guide its flight!

  I know well

  What her sleep should tell to-night.

  There the dreams are multitudes: 15

  Some whose buoyance waits not sleep,