Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti

by Christina Rossetti

  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