Shall not we twain repose together?
RUIN
Amid the shade of a deserted hall
I stand and think on much that hath been lost.
How long it is since other step has cross’d
This time-worn floor; that tapestry is all
Worm-eaten; and those columns rise up tall
Yet crumbling to decay; where banners toss’d
Thin spiders’ webs hang now; and bitter frost
Has even killed the flowers upon the wall.
Yet once this was a home brim full of life,
Full of the hopes and fears and love of youth,
Full of love’s language speaking without sound:
Here honor was enshrined and kindly truth;
Hither the young lord brought his blushing wife,
And here her bridal garlands were unbound.
I SIT AMONG GREEN SHADY VALLEYS OFT
I sit among green shady valleys oft
Listening to echo-winds sighing of woe;
The grass and flowers are strong and sweet below,
Yea, I am tired and the smooth turf is soft.
I sit and think and never look aloft
Save to the tops of a tall poplar row
That glisten in the wind, whispering low
Of sudden sorrow reaching those who laughed.
A very drowsy fountain bubbles near
Catching pale sunbeams o’er it wandering;
Its waters are so clear the stones look through: —
Then sitting by its lazy stream I hear
Silence more loud than any other thing,
What time the trees weep o’er me honeydew.
LISTEN, AND I WILL TELL YOU OF A FACE
Listen, and I will tell you of a face
Not lovely, but made beautiful by mind;
Lighted up with dark eyes in which you find
All womanly affections have their place;
Upon her even brow there is no trace
Of passion; many fragrant blossoms bind
Her hair glossy and golden; like a blind
It shadows her round cheeks blush full of grace.
I know now how it is, but it was so:
And when I think upon her bosom heaving,
And her full glistening eyes looking on me
When the poor bird was struggling; I still see
The throbbing tenderness, the virgin glow,
And dream on, not at rest and yet believing.
WOULDST THOU GIVE ME A HEAVY JEWELED CROWN
Wouldst thou give me a heavy jeweled crown
And purple mantle and embroidered vest?
Dear Child, the colours of the glorious west
Are far more gorgeous when the sun sinks down.
The diadem would only make me frown
With its own weight; nay, give me for my crest
Pale violets dreaming in perfect rest,
Or rather leaves withered to Autumn brown.
A purple flowing mantle would but hinder
My careless walk, and an embroidered robe
Would shame me: what is the best man who stepped
On earth, more than the naked worm that crept
Over its surface? Earth shall be a cinder;
Where shall be then the beauty of the globe?
I SAID WITHIN MYSELF: I AM A FOOL
I said within myself: I am a fool
To sigh ever for that which being gone
Cannot return: the sun shines as it shone;
Rejoice: — but who can be made glad by rule?
My heart and soul and spirit are no tool
To play with and direct; my cheek is wan
With memory; and ever and anon
I weep feeling life is a weary school.
There is much noise and bustle in the street;
It used to be so, and it is so now;
All are the same, and will be many a year.
Spirit, that canst not break and wilt not bow,
Fear not the cold, thou who hast borne the heat; —
Die if thou wilt; but what hast thou to fear?
METHINKS THE ILLS OF LIFE I FAIN WOULD SHUN
Methinks the ills of life I fain would shun;
But then I must shun life which is a blank:
Even in my childhood oft my spirit sank
Thinking of all that had still to be done.
Among my many friends there is not one
Like her with whom I sat upon the bank
Willow-o’er-shadowed; from whose lips I drank
A love more pure than streams that sing and run.
But many times that joy has cost a sigh;
And many times I in my heart have sought
For the old comfort, and not found it yet:
Surely in that calm day when I shall die
The painful thought will be a blessed thought,
And I shall sorrow that I must forget.
STRANGE VOICES SING AMONG THE PLANETS WHICH
Strange voices sing among the planets which
Move on forever; in the old sea’s foam
There is a prophecy; in Heaven’s blue dome
Great beacon fires are lighted; black as pitch
Is night, and yet star jewels make it rich;
And if the moon lights up her cloudy home
The darkness flees, and forth strange gleamings roam
Lighting up hill and vale and mound and ditch.
Earth is full of all questions that all ask;
And she alone of heavy silence full
Answereth not: what is it severeth
Us from the spirits that we would be with?
Or is it that our fleshly ear is dull,
And our own shadow hides light with a mask?
SLEEP, SLEEP, HAPPY CHILD
“All creation slept and smiled.” — Blake.
Sleep, sleep, happy one;
Thy night is but just begun.
Sleep in peace; still angels keep
Holy watches o’er thy sleep.
Softest breasts are pillowing,
Softest wings are shadowing
Thy calm slumber; little child,
Sleep in thy white robes undefiled.
There is no more aching now
In thy heart or in thy brow.
The red blood upon thy breast
Cannot scare away thy rest.
Though thy hands are clasped as when
A man thou prayedst among men,
Thy pains are lulled, thy tears are dried,
And thy wants are satisfied.
Sleep, sleep; what quietness
After the world’s noise is this!
Sleep on, where the hush and shade
Like a veil are round thee laid.
At thy head a cross is hewn
Whereon shines the Advent moon:
Through all the hours of the night
Its shadow rests on thee aright.
In temptation thou wert firm;
Now have patience with the worm.
Yet a little while, and he
And death and sin shall bow to thee.
Yet a little while, and thou
Shalt have a crown upon thy brow,
And a palm branch in thy hand
Where the holy angels stand.
Sleep, sleep, till the chime
Sound of the last matin prime:
Sleep on until the morn
Of another Advent dawn.
WHAT SAPPHO WOULD HAVE SAID HAD HER LEAP CURED INSTEAD OF KILLING HER
Love, Love, that having found a heart
And left it, leav’st it desolate; —
Love, Love, that art more strong than Hate,
More lasting and more full of art; —
O blessèd Love, return, return,
Brighten the flame that needs must burn.
Among the stately lilies pale,
Among the roses flushing red,
I seek a flower meet for my head,
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A wreath wherewith to bind my veil:
I seek in vain; a shadow-pain
Lies on my heart; and all in vain.
The rose hath too much life in it;
The lily is too much at rest.
Surely a blighted rose were best,
Or cankered lily flower more fit;
Or purple violet, withering
While yet the year is in its spring.
I walk down by the river side
Where the low willows touch the stream;
Beneath the ripple and sun-gleam
The slippery cold fishes glide,
Where flags and reeds and rushes lave
Their roots in the unsullied wave.
Methinks this is a drowsy place:
Disturb me not; I fain would sleep:
The very winds and waters keep
Their voices under; and the race
Of Time seems to stand still, for here
Is night or twilight all the year.
A very holy hushedness
Broods here forever: like a dove
That, having built its nest above
A quiet place, feels the excess
Of calm sufficient, and would fain
Not wake, but drowse on without pain.
And slumbering on its mossy nest
Haply hath dreams of pleasant Spring;
And in its vision prunes its wing
And takes swift flight, yet is at rest.
Yea, is at rest: and still the calm
Is wrapped around it like a charm.
I would have quiet too in truth,
And here will sojourn for a while.
Lo; I have wandered many a mile,
Till I am foot-sore in my youth.
I will lie down; and quite forget
The doubts and fears that haunt me yet.
My pillow underneath my head
Shall be green grass; thick fragrant leaves
My canopy; the spider weaves
Meet curtains for my narrow bed;
And the dew can but cool my brow
That is so dry and burning now.
Ah, would that it could reach my heart,
And fill the void that is so dry
And aches and aches; — but what am I
To shrink from my self-purchased part?
It is in vain; is all in vain;
I must go forth and bear my pain.
Must bear my pain, till Love shall turn
To me in pity and come back.
His footsteps left a smouldering track
When he went forth, that still doth burn.
Oh come again, thou pain divine,
Fill me and make me wholly thine.
ON KEATS
A garden in a garden: a green spot
Where all is green: most fitting slumber-place
For the strong man grown weary of a race
Soon over. Unto him a goodly lot
Hath fallen in fertile ground; there thorns are not,
But his own daisies: silence, full of grace,
Surely hath shed a quiet on his face:
His earth is but sweet leaves that fall and rot.
What was his record of himself, ere he
Went from us? Here lies one whose name was writ
In water: while the chilly shadows flit
Of sweet Saint Agnes’ Eve; while basil springs,
His name, in every humble heart that sings,
Shall be a fountain of love, verily.
HAVE PATIENCE
The goblets all are broken,
The pleasant wine is spilt,
The songs cease; if thou wilt,
Listen, and hear truth spoken.
We take thought for the morrow,
And know not we shall see it;
We look on death with sorrow,
And cannot flee it.
Youth passes like the lightning,
Not to return again;
Just for a little bright’ning
The confines of a plain;
Gilding the spires, and whitening
The grave-stones and the slain.
Youth passes like the odour
From the white rose’s cup,
When the hot sun drinks up
The dew that overflowed her:
Then life forsakes the petals
That had been very fair;
No beauty lingers there,
And no bee settles.
But when the rose is dead,
And the leaves fallen;
And when the earth has spread
A snow-white pall on;
The thorn remains, once hidden
By the green growth above it;
A darksome guest unbidden,
With none to love it.
Manhood is turbulent,
And old age tires;
That, hath no still content,
This, no desires.
The present hath even less
Joy than the past,
And more cares fret it: —
Life is a weariness
From first to last: —
Let us forget it.
Fill high and deep: — but how?
The goblets all are broken.
Nay then, have patience now:
For this is but a token
We soon shall have no need
Of such to cheer us:
The palm-branches, decreed,
And crowns, to be our meed,
Are very near us.
TO LALLA, READING MY VERSES TOPSY-TURVY
Darling little Cousin,
With your thoughtful look
Reading topsy-turvy
From a printed book
English hieroglyphics,
More mysterious
To you, than Egyptian
Ones would be to us; —
Leave off for a minute
Studying, and say
What is the impression
That those marks convey?
Only solemn silence,
And a wondering smile:
But your eyes are lifted
Unto mine the while.
In their gaze so steady
I can surely trace
That a happy spirit
Lighteth up your face.
Tender, happy spirit,
Innocent and pure;
Teaching more than science,
And than learning more.
How should I give answer
To that asking look?
Darling little Cousin
Go back to your book.
Read on: if you knew it,
You have cause to boast: —
You are much the wisest,
Though I know the most.
SONNET: SOME SAY THAT LOVE AND JOY ARE ONE: AND SO
Some say that love and joy are one: and so
They are indeed in heaven, but not on earth.
Our hearts are made too narrow for the girth
Of love, which is infinity; below
The portion we can compass may bring woe;
Of this the Church bears witness from her birth:
And though a throne in heaven be more than worth
Tears, it is pain that makes them overflow.
Think of the utter grief that fell on them
Who knew that they should see his face no more,
When, strong in faith and love, he went before,
Bound in the spirit, to Jerusalem,
And yet the bitter parting scarcely bore,
Though burning for a martyr’s diadem.
THE LAST COMPLAINT
Woe is me! an old man said
Stretched upon his dying bed:
Woe is me! for life is short;
And one hour cannot be bought
With great treasure or long thought.
What have all my days been worth?
Weary labor without gain,
Pleasure ending in much pain,
Planting that br
ought forth no fruit,
Tree of life struck at the root,
Were my portion from my birth:
But my cold heart sickeneth
Shrinking from the touch of death;
And I fain would have again
Toil and weariness and pain
For a short time more on earth.
Yet the time was troublesome,
And the days lagged slowly on;
Surely it is better so:
And I cannot grieve to go
Hence. How fast the shadows come: —
Light and darkness both grow wan: —
Is that fire? it is not heat.
Cover up my face and feet;
Stand back; do not speak to me:
I would think how it will be
When the sun is blotted from
My existence, and the worm
Dwells with me as friend with friend
For a certain measured term.
But his term will have an end:
Then I shall be quite alone,
Quite alone without a sound;
For no wind beneath the ground
Can come jarring bone with bone.
Without eyes I shall behold
Darkness, and shall feel the cold
Without nerves, or brain, or flesh; —
Oh sweet air that blowest fresh;
Oh sweet stars that glimmer through
The dim casement; — I shall soon
Have a sod instead of you.
Draw the curtains, while I wake
Who shall sleep; and let me lie
In the blackness, till I die;
For I cannot bear to take
My last look of the clear moon.
HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN?
Have you forgotten how one Summer night
We wandered forth together with the moon,
While warm winds hummed to us a sleepy tune?
Have you forgotten how you praised both light
And darkness; not embarrassed yet not quite
At ease? and how you said the glare of noon
Less pleased you than the stars? but very soon
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 61