Her home is neat and homely, not a cot and not a palace,
Just the home where love sets up his happiest memories.
Milly has no mother; and sad beyond another
Is she whose blessed mother is vanished out of call:
Truly comfort beyond comfort is stored up in a mother
Who bears with all, and hopes through all, and loves us all.
Where peacocks nod and flaunt up and down the terrace,
Furling and unfurling their scores of sightless eyes,
To and fro among the leaves and buds and flowers and berries
Maiden Milly strolls and pauses, smiles and sighs.
On the hedged-in terrace of her father’s palace
She may stroll and muse alone, may smile or sigh alone,
Letting thoughts and eyes go wandering over hills and valleys
Today her father’s, and one day to be all her own.
If her thoughts go coursing down lowlands and up highlands,
It is because the startled game are leaping from their lair;
If her thoughts dart homeward to the reedy river islands,
It is because the waterfowl rise startled here or there.
At length a footfall on the steps: she turns, composed and steady,
All the long-descended greatness of her father’s house
Lifting up her head; and there stands Walter keen and ready
For hunting or for hawking, a flush upon his brows.
“Good-morrow, fair cousin.” “Good-morrow, fairest cousin:
The sun has started on his course, and I must start today.
If you have done me one good turn you’ve done me many a dozen,
And I shall often think of you, think of you away.”
“Over hill and hollow what quarry will you follow,
Or what fish will you angle for beside the river’s edge?
There’s cloud upon the hill-top and there ‘s mist deep down the hollow,
And fog among the rushes and the rustling sedge.”
“I shall speed well enough be it hunting or hawking,
Or casting a bait towards the shyest daintiest fin.
But I kiss your hands, my cousin; I must not loiter talking,
For nothing comes of nothing, and I’m fain to seek and win.”
“Here’s a thorny rose: will you wear it an hour,
Till the petals drop apart still fresh and pink and sweet?
Till the petals drop from the drooping perished flower,
And only the graceless thorns are left of it.”
“Nay, I have another rose sprung in another garden,
Another rose which sweetens all the world for me.
Be you a tenderer mistress and be you a warier warden
Of your rose, as sweet as mine, and full as fair to see.”
“Nay, a bud once plucked there is no reviving,
Nor is it worth your wearing now, nor worth indeed my own;
The dead to the dead, and the living to the living.
It’s time I go within, for it’s time now you were gone.”
“Good-bye, Milly Brandon, I shall not forget you,
Though it be good-bye between us forever from today;
I could almost wish today that I had never met you,
And I’m true to you in this one word that I say.”
“Good-bye, Walter. I can guess which thornless rose you covet;
Long may it bloom and prolong its sunny morn:
Yet as for my one thorny rose, I do not cease to love it,
And if it is no more a flower I love it as a thorn.”
A LIFE’S PARALLELS
Never on this side of the grave again,
On this side of the river,
On this side of the garner of the grain,
Never, —
Ever while time flows on and on and on,
That narrow noiseless river,
Ever while corn bows heavy-headed, wan,
Ever, —
Never despairing, often fainting, ruing,
But looking back, ah never!
Faint yet pursuing, faint yet still pursuing
Ever.
AT LAST
Many have sung of love a root of bane:
While to my mind a root of balm it is,
For love at length breeds love; sufficient bliss
For life and death and rising up again.
Surely when light of Heaven makes all things plain,
Love will grow plain with all its mysteries;
Nor shall we need to fetch from over seas
Wisdom or wealth or pleasure safe from pain.
Love in our borders, love within our heart,
Love all in all, we then shall bide at rest,
Ended for ever life’s unending quest,
Ended for ever effort, change and fear:
Love all in all; — no more that better part
Purchased, but at the cost of all things here.
GOLDEN SILENCES
There is silence that saith, “Ah me!”
There is silence that nothing saith;
One the silence of life forlorn,
One the silence of death;
One is, and the other shall be.
One we know and have known for long,
One we know not, but we shall know,
All we who have ever been born;
Even so, be it so, —
There is silence, despite a song.
Sowing day is a silent day,
Resting night is a silent night;
But whoso reaps the ripened corn
Shall shout in his delight,
While silences vanish away.
IN THE WILLOW SHADE
I sat beneath a willow tree,
Where water falls and calls;
While fancies upon fancies solaced me,
Some true, and some were false.
Who set their heart upon a hope
That never comes to pass,
Droop in the end like fading heliotrope,
The sun’s wan looking-glass.
Who set their will upon a whim
Clung to through good and ill,
Are wrecked alike whether they sink or swim,
Or hit or miss their will.
All things are vain that wax and wane,
For which we waste our breath;
Love only doth not wane and is not vain,
Love only outlives death.
A singing lark rose toward the sky,
Circling he sang amain;
He sang, a speck scarce visible sky-high,
And then he sank again.
A second like a sunlit spark
Flashed singing up his track;
But never overtook that foremost lark,
And songless fluttered back.
A hovering melody of birds
Haunted the air above;
They clearly sang contentment without words,
And youth and joy and love.
O silvery weeping willow tree
With all leaves shivering,
Have you no purpose but to shadow me
Beside this rippled spring?
On this first fleeting day of Spring,
For Winter is gone by,
And every bird on every quivering wing
Floats in a sunny sky;
On this first Summer-like soft day,
While sunshine steeps the air,
And every cloud has gat itself away,
And birds sing everywhere.
Have you no purpose in the world
But thus to shadow me
With all your tender drooping twigs unfurled,
O weeping willow tree?
With all your tremulous leaves outspread
Betwixt me and the sun,
While here I loiter on a mossy bed
With half my work undone;
My work undone, that should be done
At once with all my might;
/> For after the long day and lingering sun
Comes the unworking night.
This day is lapsing on its way,
Is lapsing out of sight;
And after all the chances of the day
Comes the resourceless night.
The weeping-willow shook its head
And stretched its shadow long;
The west grew crimson, the sun smoldered red,
The birds forbore a song.
Slow wind sighed through the willow leaves,
The ripple made a moan,
The world drooped murmuring like a thing that grieves;
And then I felt alone.
I rose to go, and felt the chill,
And shivered as I went;
Yet shivering wondered, and I wonder still,
What more that willow meant;
That silvery weeping-willow tree
With all leaves shivering,
Which spent one long day overshadowing me
Beside a spring in Spring.
FLUTTERED WINGS
The splendor of the kindling day,
The splendor of the setting sun,
These move my soul to wend its way,
And have done
With all we grasp and toil amongst and say.
The paling roses of a cloud,
The fading bow that arches space,
These woo my fancy toward my shroud;
Toward the place
Of faces veiled, and heads discrowned and bowed.
The nation of the awful stars,
The wandering star whose blaze is brief,
These make me beat against the bars
Of my grief;
My tedious grief, twin to the life it mars.
O fretted heart tossed to and fro,
So fain to flee, so fain to rest!
All glories that are high or low,
East or west,
Grow dim to thee who art so fain to go.
A FISHER-WIFE
The soonest mended, nothing said;
And help may rise from east or west;
But my two hands are lumps of lead,
My heart sits leaden in my breast.
O north wind swoop not from the north,
O south wind linger in the south,
Oh come not raving raging forth,
To bring my heart into my mouth;
For I’ve a husband out at sea,
Afloat on feeble planks of wood;
He does not know what fear may be;
I would have told him if I could.
I would have locked him in my arms,
I would have hid him in my heart;
For oh! the waves are fraught with harms,
And he and I so far apart.
WHAT’S IN A NAME?
Why has Spring one syllable less
Than any its fellow season?
There may be some other reason,
And I’m merely making a guess;
But surely it hoards such wealth
Of happiness, hope and health,
Sunshine and musical sound,
It may spare a foot from its name
Yet all the same
Superabound.
Soft-named Summer,
Most welcome comer,
Brings almost everything
Over which we dream or sing
Or sigh;
But then Summer wends its way,
Tomorrow, — today, —
Good-bye!
Autumn, — the slow name lingers,
While we likewise flag;
It silences many singers;
Its slow days drag,
Yet hasten at speed
To leave us in chilly need
For Winter to strip indeed.
In all-lack Winter,
Dull of sense and of sound,
We huddle and shiver
Beside our splinter
Of crackling pine,
Snow in sky and snow on ground.
Winter and cold
Can’t last forever!
Today, tomorrow, the sun will shine;
When we are old,
But some still are young,
Singing the song
Which others have sung,
Ringing the bells
Which others have rung, —
Even so!
We ourselves, who else?
We ourselves long
Long ago.
MARIANA
Not for me marring or making,
Not for me giving or taking;
I love my Love and he loves not me,
I love my Love and my heart is breaking.
Sweet is Spring in its lovely showing,
Sweet the violet veiled in blowing,
Sweet it is to love and be loved;
Ah, sweet knowledge beyond my knowing!
Who sighs for love sighs but for pleasure,
Who wastes for love hoards up a treasure;
Sweet to be loved and take no count,
Sweet it is to love without measure.
Sweet my Love whom I loved to try for,
Sweet my Love whom I love and sigh for,
Will you once love me and sigh for me,
You my Love whom I love and die for?
MEMENTO MORI
Poor the pleasure
Doled out by measure,
Sweet though it be, while brief
As falling of the leaf;
Poor is pleasure
By weight and measure.
Sweet the sorrow
Which ends tomorrow;
Sharp though it be and sore,
It ends for evermore:
Zest of sorrow,
What ends tomorrow.
ONE FOOT ON SEA, AND ONE ON SHORE
“Oh tell me once and tell me twice
And tell me thrice to make it plain,
When we who part this weary day,
When we who part shall meet again.”
“When windflowers blossom on the sea
And fishes skim along the plain,
Then we who part this weary day,
Then you and I shall meet again.”
“Yet tell me once before we part,
Why need we part who part in pain?
If flowers must blossom on the sea,
Why, we shall never meet again.
“My cheeks are paler than a rose,
My tears are salter than the main,
My heart is like a lump of ice
If we must never meet again.”
“Oh weep or laugh, but let me be,
And live or die, for all’s in vain;
For life’s in vain since we must part,
And parting must not meet again
“Till windflowers blossom on the sea,
And fishes skim along the plain;
Pale rose of roses let me be,
Your breaking heart breaks mine again.”
BUDS AND BABIES
A million buds are born that never blow,
That sweet with promise lift a pretty head
To blush and wither on a barren bed
And leave no fruit to show.
Sweet, unfulfilled. Yet have I understood
One joy, by their fragility made plain:
Nothing was ever beautiful in vain,
Or all in vain was good.
BOY JOHNNY
“If you’ll busk you as a bride
And make ready,
It’s I will wed you with a ring,
O fair lady.”
“Shall I busk me as a bride,
I so bonny,
For you to wed me with a ring,
O boy Johnny?”
“When you’ve busked you as a bride
And made ready,
Who else is there to marry you,
O fair lady?”
“I will find my lover out,
I so bonny,
And you shall bear my wedding-train,
&
nbsp; O boy Johnny.”
FREAKS OF FASHION
Such a hubbub in the nests,
Such a bustle and squeak!
Nestlings, guiltless of a feather,
Learning just to speak,
Ask — ”And how about the fashions?”
From a cavernous beak.
Perched on bushes, perched on hedges,
Perched on firm hahas,
Perched on anything that holds them,
Gay papas and grave mammas
Teach the knowledge-thirsty nestlings:
Hear the gay papas.
Robin says: “A scarlet waistcoat
Will be all the wear,
Snug, and also cheerful-looking
For the frostiest air,
Comfortable for the chest too
When one comes to plume and pair.”
“Neat gray hoods will be in vogue,”
Quoth a Jackdaw: “Glossy gray,
Setting close, yet setting easy,
Nothing fly-away;
Suited to our misty mornings,
À la negligée.”
Flushing salmon, flushing sulphur,
Haughty Cockatoos
Answer — ”Hoods may do for mornings,
But for evenings choose
High head-dresses, curved like crescents,
Such as well-bred persons use.”
“Top-knots, yes; yet more essential
Still, a train or tail,”
Screamed the Peacock: “Gemmed and lustrous
Not too stiff, and not too frail;
Those are best which rearrange as
Fans, and spread or trail.”
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 27