Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti

by Christina Rossetti

  My love may overflow.

  “Love Me in sinners and in saints,

  In each who needs or faints.” —

  Lord, I will love Thee as I can

  In every brother man.

  “All sore, all crippled, all who ache,

  Tend all for My dear sake.” —

  All for Thy sake, Lord: I will see

  In every sufferer, Thee.

  “So I at last, upon My Throne

  Of glory, Judge alone,

  So I at last will say to thee:

  Thou diddest it to Me.”

  A MARTYR

  The Vigil Of The Feast

  Inner not outer, without gnash of teeth

  Or weeping, save quiet sobs of some who pray

  And feel the Everlasting Arms beneath, —

  Blackness of darkness this, but not for aye;

  Darkness that even in gathering fleeteth fast,

  Blackness of blackest darkness close to day.

  Lord Jesus, through Thy darkened pillar cast,

  Thy gracious eyes all-seeing cast on me

  Until this tyranny be overpast.

  Me, Lord, remember who remember Thee,

  And cleave to Thee, and see Thee without sight,

  And choose Thee still in dire extremity,

  And in this darkness worship Thee my Light,

  And Thee my Life adore in shadow of death,

  Thee loved by day, and still beloved by night.

  It is the Voice of my Beloved that saith:

  “I am the Way, the Truth, the Life, I go

  Whither that soul knows well that followeth” —

  O Lord, I follow, little as I know;

  At this eleventh hour I rise and take

  My life into my hand, and follow so,

  With tears and heart-misgivings and heart-ache;

  Thy feeblest follower, yet Thy follower

  Indomitable for Thine only sake.

  Tonight I gird my will afresh, and stir

  My strength, and brace my heart to do and dare,

  Marveling: Will tomorrow wake the whirr

  Of the great rending wheel, or from his lair

  Startle the jubilant lion in his rage,

  Or clench the headsman’s hand within my hair,

  Or kindle fire to speed my pilgrimage,

  Chariot of fire and horses of sheer fire

  Whirling me home to heaven by one fierce stage?

  Thy Will I will, I Thy desire desire;

  Let not the waters close above my head,

  Uphold me that I sink not in this mire:

  For flesh and blood are frail and sore afraid;

  And young I am, unsatisfied and young,

  With memories, hopes, with cravings all unfed,

  My song half sung, its sweetest notes unsung,

  All plans cut short, all possibilities,

  Because my cord of life is soon unstrung.

  Was I a careless woman set at ease

  That this so bitter cup is brimmed for me?

  Had mine own vintage settled on the lees?

  A word, a puff of smoke, would set me free;

  A word, a puff of smoke, over and gone:…

  Howbeit, whom have I, Lord, in heaven but Thee?

  Yea, only Thee my choice is fixed upon

  In heaven or earth, eternity or time: —

  Lord, hold me fast, Lord, leave me not alone,

  Thy silly heartless dove that sees the lime

  Yet almost flutters to the tempting bough:

  Cover me, hide me, pluck me from this crime.

  A word, a puff of smoke, would save me now:…

  But who, my God, would save me in the day

  Of Thy fierce anger? only Saviour Thou.

  Preoccupy my heart, and turn away

  And cover up mine eyes from frantic fear,

  And stop mine ears lest I be driven astray:

  For one stands ever dinning in mine ear

  How my gray Father withers in the blight

  Of love for me, who cruel am and dear;

  And how my Mother through this lingering night

  Until the day, sits tearless in her woe,

  Loathing for love of me the happy light

  Which brings to pass a concourse and a show

  To glut the hungry faces merciless,

  The thousand faces swaying to and fro,

  Feasting on me unveiled in helplessness

  Alone, — yet not alone: Lord, stand by me

  As once by lonely Paul in his distress.

  As blossoms to the sun I turn to Thee;

  Thy dove turns to her window, think no scorn;

  As one dove to an ark on shoreless sea,

  To Thee I turn mine eyes, my heart forlorn;

  Put forth Thy scarred right Hand, kind Lord, take hold

  Of me Thine all-forsaken dove who mourn:

  For Thou hast loved me since the days of old,

  And I love Thee Whom loving I will love

  Through life’s short fever-fits of heat and cold;

  Thy Name will I extol and sing thereof,

  Will flee for refuge to Thy Blessed Name.

  Lord, look upon me from thy bliss above:

  Look down on me, who shrink from all the shame

  And pangs and desolation of my death,

  Wrenched piecemeal or devoured or set on flame,

  While all the world around me holds its breath

  With eyes glued on me for a gazing-stock,

  Pitiless eyes, while no man pitieth.

  The floods are risen, I stagger in their shock,

  My heart reels and is faint, I fail, I faint:

  My God, set Thou me up upon the rock,

  Thou Who didst long ago Thyself acquaint

  With death, our death; Thou Who didst long ago

  Pour forth Thy soul for sinner and for saint.

  Bear me in mind, whom no one else will know;

  Thou Whom Thy friends forsook, take Thou my part,

  Of all forsaken in mine overthrow;

  Carry me in Thy bosom, in Thy heart,

  Carry me out of darkness into light,

  Tomorrow make me see Thee as Thou art.

  Lover and friend Thou hidest from my sight: —

  Alas, alas, mine earthly love, alas,

  For whom I thought to don the garments white

  And white wreath of a bride, this rugged pass

  Hath utterly divorced me from thy care;

  Yea, I am to thee as a shattered glass

  Worthless, with no more beauty lodging there,

  Abhorred, lest I involve thee in my doom:

  For sweet are sunshine and this upper air,

  And life and youth are sweet, and give us room

  For all most sweetest sweetnesses we taste:

  Dear, what hast thou in common with a tomb?

  I bow my head in silence, I make haste

  Alone, I make haste out into the dark,

  My life and youth and hope all run to waste.

  Is this my body cold and stiff and stark,

  Ashes made ashes, earth becoming earth,

  Is this a prize for man to make his mark?

  Am I, that very I who laughed in mirth

  A while ago, a little, little while,

  Yet all the while a-dying since my birth?

  Now am I tired, too tired to strive or smile;

  I sit alone, my mouth is in the dust:

  Look Thou upon me, Lord, for I am vile.

  In Thee is all my hope, is all my trust,

  On Thee I centre all myself that dies,

  And self that dies not with its mortal crust,

  But sleeps and wakes, and in the end will rise

  With hymns and hallelujahs on its lips,

  Thee loving with the love that satisfies.

  As once in Thine unutterable eclipse

  The sun and moon grew dark for sympathy,

  And earth cowered quaking underneath the drips
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  Of Thy slow Blood priceless exceedingly,

  So now a little spare me, and show forth

  Some pity, O my God, some pity of me.

  If trouble comes not from the south or north,

  But meted to us by Thy tender hand,

  Let me not in Thine eyes be nothing worth:

  Behold me where in agony I stand,

  Behold me no man caring for my soul,

  And take me to Thee in the far-off land,

  Shorten the race and lift me to the goal.

  WHY?

  Lord, if I love Thee and Thou lovest me,

  Why need I any more these toilsome days;

  Why should I not run singing up Thy ways

  Straight into heaven, to rest myself with Thee?

  What need remains of death-pang yet to be,

  If all my soul is quickened in Thy praise;

  If all my heart loves Thee, what need the amaze,

  Struggle and dimness of an agony? —

  Bride whom I love, if thou too lovest Me,

  Thou needs must choose My Likeness for thy dower:

  So wilt thou toil in patience, and abide

  Hungering and thirsting for that blessed hour

  When I My Likeness shall behold in thee,

  And thou therein shalt waken satisfied.

  LOVE IS STRONG AS DEATH

  “I have not sought Thee, I have not found Thee,

  I have not thirsted for Thee:

  And now cold billows of death surround me,

  Buffeting billows of death astound me, —

  Wilt Thou look upon, wilt Thou see

  Thy perishing me?”

  “Yea, I have sought thee, yea, I have found thee,

  Yea, I have thirsted for thee,

  Yea, long ago with love’s bands I bound thee:

  Now the Everlasting Arms surround thee, —

  Through death’s darkness I look and see

  And clasp thee to Me.”

  BIRCHINGTON CHURCHYARD

  A lowly hill which overlooks a flat,

  Half sea, half country side;

  A flat-shored sea of low-voiced creeping tide

  Over a chalky, weedy mat.

  A hill of hillocks, flowery and kept green

  Round Crosses raised for hope,

  With many-tinted sunsets where the slope

  Faces the lingering western sheen.

  A lowly hope, a height that is but low,

  While Time sets solemnly,

  While the tide rises of Eternity,

  Silent and neither swift nor slow.

  ONE SEA-SIDE GRAVE

  Unmindful of the roses,

  Unmindful of the thorn,

  A reaper tired reposes

  Among his gathered corn:

  So might I, till the morn!

  Cold as the cold Decembers,

  Past as the days that set,

  While only one remembers

  And all the rest forget, —

  But one remembers yet.

  BROTHER BRUIN

  A dancing Bear grotesque and funny

  Earned for his master heaps of money,

  Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,

  And cheerful if the day was sunny.

  Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood

  He tramped, and on some common stood;

  There, cottage children circling gaily,

  He in their midmost footed daily.

  Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle

  Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:

  But like a philosophic bear

  He let alone extraneous care

  And danced contented anywhere.

  Still, year on year, and wear and tear,

  Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.

  A day came when he scarce could prance,

  And when his master looked askance

  On dancing Bear who would not dance.

  To looks succeeded blows; hard blows

  Battered his ears and poor old nose.

  From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;

  He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,

  Capered in fury fast and faster.

  Ah, could he once but hug his master

  And perish in one joint disaster!

  But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,

  Not fury’s self could keep him going.

  One dark day when the snow was snowing

  His cup was brimmed to overflowing:

  He tottered, toppled on one side,

  Growled once, and shook his head, and died.

  The master kicked and struck in vain,

  The weary drudge had distanced pain

  And never now would wince again.

  The master growled; he might have howled

  Or coaxed, — that slave’s last growl was growled.

  So gnawed by rancor and chagrin

  One thing remained: he sold the skin.

  What next the man did is not worth

  Your notice or my setting forth,

  But hearken what befell at last.

  His idle working days gone past,

  And not one friend and not one penny

  Stored up (if ever he had any

  Friends; but his coppers had been many),

  All doors stood shut against him but

  The workhouse door, which cannot shut.

  There he droned on, — a grim old sinner,

  Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,

  Unpitied quite, uncared for much

  (The rate-payers not favoring such),

  Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;

  Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear

  Danced back, a haunting memory.

  Indeed, I hope so, for you see

  If once the hard old heart relented,

  The hard old man may have repented.

  A HELPMEET FOR HIM

  Woman was made for man’s delight, —

  Charm, O woman! Be not afraid!

  His shadow by day, his moon by night,

  Woman was made.

  Her strength with weakness is overlaid;

  Meek compliances veil her might;

  Him she stays, by whom she is stayed.

  World-wide champion of truth and right,

  Hope in gloom, and in danger aid,

  Tender and faithful, ruddy and white,

  Woman was made.

  A SONG OF FLIGHT

  While we slumber and sleep,

  The sun leaps up from the deep, —

  Daylight born at the leap, —

  Rapid, dominant, free,

  Athirst to bathe in the uttermost sea.

  While we linger at play —

  If the year would stand at May! —

  Winds are up and away,

  Over land, over sea,

  To their goal, wherever their goal may be.

  It is time to arise,

  To race for the promised prize;

  The sun flies, the wind flies,

  We are strong, we are free,

  And home lies beyond the stars and the sea.

  A WINTRY SONNET

  A robin said: The Spring will never come,

  And I shall never care to build again.

  A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome,

  My sap will never stir for sun or rain.

  The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow,

  I neither care to wax nor care to wane.

  The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago,

  Because earth’s rivers cannot fill the main.

  When springtime came, red Robin built a nest,

  And trilled a lover’s song in sheer delight.

  Gray hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with might

  Clothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core.

  The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest,

  Dimpled his blue, — yet thirsted evermore.

  RESURGAM

  From depth to heig
ht, from height to loftier height,

  The climber sets his foot and sets his face,

  Tracks lingering sunbeams to their halting-place,

  And counts the last pulsations of the light.

  Strenuous thro’ day and unsurprised by night

  He runs a race with Time, and wins the race,

  Emptied and stripped of all save only Grace,

  Will, Love, — a threefold panoply of might.

  Darkness descends for light he toiled to seek;

  He stumbles on the darkened mountain-head,

  Left breathless in the unbreathable thin air,

  Made freeman of the living and the dead, —

  He wots not he has topped the topmost peak,

  But the returning sun will find him there.

  TODAY’S BURDEN

  “Arise, depart, for this is not your rest.” —

  Oh, burden of all burdens, — still to arise

  And still depart, nor rest in any wise!

  Rolling, still rolling thus to east from west,

  Earth journeys on her immemorial quest,

  Whom a moon chases in no different guise.

  Thus stars pursue their courses, and thus flies

  The sun, and thus all creatures manifest

  Unrest, the common heritage, the ban

  Flung broadcast on all humankind, — on all

  Who live; for living, all are bound to die.

  That which is old, we know that it is man.

  These have no rest who sit and dream and sigh,

  Nor have those rest who wrestle and who fall.

  THERE IS A BUDDING MORROW IN MIDNIGHT

  Wintry boughs against a wintry sky;

  Yet the sky is partly blue

  And the clouds are partly bright.

  Who can tell but sap is mounting high

  Out of sight,

  Ready to burst through?

  Winter is the mother-nurse of Spring,

  Lovely for her daughter’s sake.

  Not unlovely for her own;

  For a future buds in everything

  Grown or blown

  Or about to break.

  EXULTATE DEO

  Many a flower hath perfume for its dower,

  And many a bird a song,