You blushed, and seemed to doubt if you were right.
We wandered far and took no note of time;
Till on the air there came the distant call
Of church bells: we turned hastily, and yet
Ere we reached home sounded a second chime.
But what; have you indeed forgotten all?
Ah how then is it I cannot forget?
A CHRISTMAS CAROL, (ON THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT.)
Thank God, thank God, we do believe,
Thank God that this is Christmas Eve.
Even as we kneel upon this day,
Even so the ancient legends say
Nearly two thousand years ago
The stalled ox knelt, and even so
The ass knelt full of praise which they
Could not express, while we can pray.
Thank God, thank God, for Christ was born
Ages ago, as on this morn:
In the snow-season undefiled
God came to earth a little Child;
He put His ancient glory by
To live for us, and then to die.
How shall we thank God? how shall we
Thank Him and praise Him worthily?
What will He have Who loved us thus,
What presents will He take from us?
Will He take gold, or precious heap
Of gems, or shall we rather steep
The air with incense, or bring myrrh?
What man will be our messenger
To go to Him and ask His Will?
Which having learned we will fulfil
Tho’ He choose all we most prefer: —
What man will be our messenger?
Thank God, thank God, the Man is found,
Sure-footed, knowing well the ground:
He knows the road, for this the way
He travelled once, as on this day.
He is our Messenger; beside,
He is our Door, and Path, and Guide;
He also is our Offering,
He is the Gift that we must bring.
Let us kneel down with one accord
And render thanks unto the Lord:
For unto us a Child is born
Upon this happy Christmas morn;
For unto us a Son is given,
Firstborn of God and Heir of Heaven.
FOR ADVENT
Sweet sweet sound of distant waters falling
On a parched and thirsty plain;
Sweet sweet song of soaring skylark, calling
On the sun to shine again;
Perfume of the rose, only the fresher
For past fertilizing rain;
Pearls amid the sea, a hidden treasure
For some daring hand to gain; —
Better, dearer than all these
Is the earth beneath the trees:
Of a much more priceless worth
Is the old, brown, common earth.
Little snow-white lamb piteously bleating
For thy mother far away;
Saddest, sweetest nightingale retreating
With thy sorrow from the day;
Weary fawn whom night has overtaken,
From the herd gone quite astray;
Dove whose nest was rifled and forsaken
In the budding month of May; —
Roost upon the leafy trees;
Lie on earth and take your ease:
Death is better far than birth,
You shall turn again to earth.
Listen to the never pausing murmur
Of the waves that fret the shore:
See the ancient pine that stands the firmer
For the storm-shock that it bore;
And the moon her silver chalice filling
With light from the great sun’s store;
And the stars which deck our temple’s ceiling
As the flowers deck its floor;
Look and hearken while you may,
For these things shall pass away:
All these things shall fail and cease;
Let us wait the end in peace.
Let us wait the end in peace; for truly
That shall cease which was before:
Let us see our lamps are lighted, duly
Fed with oil, nor wanting more:
Let us pray while yet the Lord will hear us,
For the time is almost o’er;
Yea, the end of all is very near us;
Yea, the Judge is at the door.
Let us pray now while we may;
It will be too late to pray
When the quick and dead shall all
Rise at the last trumpet call.
TWO PURSUITS
A voice said: “Follow, follow:” and I rose
And followed far into the dreamy night,
Turning my back upon the pleasant light.
It led me where the bluest water flows,
And would not let me drink; where the corn grows
I dared not pause, but went uncheered by sight
Or touch; until at length in evil plight
It left me, wearied out with many woes.
Some time I sat as one bereft of sense:
But soon another voice from very far
Called: “Follow, follow:” and I rose again.
Now on my night has dawned a blessèd star;
Kind, steady hands my sinking steps sustain,
And will not leave me till I shall go hence.
LOOKING FORWARD
Sleep, let me sleep, for I am sick of care;
Sleep, let me sleep, for my pain wearies me.
Shut out the light; thicken the heavy air
With drowsy incense; let a distant stream
Of music lull me, languid as a dream,
Soft as the whisper of a Summer sea.
Pluck me no rose that groweth on a thorn,
Nor myrtle white and cold as snow in June,
Fit for a virgin on her marriage morn:
But bring me poppies brimmed with sleepy death,
And ivy choking what it garlandeth,
And primroses that open to the moon.
Listen, the music swells into a song,
A simple song I loved in days of yore;
The echoes take it up and up along
The hills, and the wind blows it back again. —
Peace, peace, there is a memory in that strain
Of happy days that shall return no more.
Oh peace, your music wakeneth old thought,
But not old hope that made my life so sweet,
Only the longing that must end in nought.
Have patience with me, friends, a little while:
For soon where you shall dance and sing and smile,
My quickened dust may blossom at your feet.
Sweet thought that I may yet live and grow green,
That leaves may yet spring from the withered root,
And buds and flowers and berries half unseen;
Then if you haply muse upon the past,
Say this: Poor child, she hath her wish at last;
Barren through life, but in death bearing fruit.
LIFE HIDDEN
Roses and lilies grow above the place
Where she sleeps the long sleep that doth not dream.
If we could look upon her hidden face
Nor shadow would be there nor garish gleam
Of light: her life is lapsing like a stream
That makes no noise but floweth on apace
Seawards; while many a shade and shady beam
Vary the ripples in their gliding chase.
She doth not see, but knows: she doth not feel,
And yet is sensible: she hears no sound,
Yet counts the flight of time and doth not err.
Peace far and near; peace to ourselves and her:
Her body is at peace in holy ground,
Her spirit is at peace where Angels kneel.
QUEEN ROSE
The jessamine shows like a star;
The lilies sway like scepters slim;
Fair clematis from near and far
Sets forth its wayward tangled whim;
Curved meadowsweet blooms rich and dim; —
But yet a rose is fairer far.
The jessamine is odorous; so
Maid lilies are, and clematis;
And where tall meadowsweet flowers grow
A rare and subtle perfume is; —
What can there be more choice than these? —
A rose when it doth bud and blow.
Let others choose sweet jessamine,
Or weave their lily crown aright,
And let who love it pluck and twine
Loose clematis; or draw delight
From meadowsweet’s clustery downy white; —
The rose, the perfect rose be mine.
HOW ONE CHOSE
“Beyond the sea, in a green land
Where only rivers are; —
Beyond the clouds, in the clear sky
Close by some quiet star; —
Could you not fancy there might be
A home Beloved for you and me?”
“If there were such a home my Friend
Truly prepared for us
Full of palm branches or of crowns
Sun-gemmed and glorious,
How should we reach it? let us cease
From longing; let us be at peace.”
“The nightingale sang yestereve;
A sweet song singeth she:
Most sad and without any hope
And full of memory;
But still methought it seemed to speak
To me of home, and bid me seek.”
“The nightingale ceased ere the morn:
Her heart could not contain
The passion of her song, but burst
With the loud throbbing pain.
Now she hath rest which is the best,
And now I too would be at rest.”
“Last night I watched the mounting moon:
Her glory was too pale
To shine thro’ the black heavy clouds
That wrapped her like a veil;
And yet with patience she passed thro’
The mists and reached the depths of blue.”
“And when the road was travelled o’er
And when the goal was won
A little while and all her light
Was swallowed by the sun:
The weary moon must seek again;
Even so our search would be in vain.”
“Yet seek with me. And if our way
Be long and troublesome,
And if our noon be hot until
The chilly shadows come
Of evening; — till those shadows flee
In dawn, think Love it is with me.”
“Nay seek alone: I am no mate
For such as you, in truth:
My heart is old before its time;
Yours yet is in its youth:
This home with pleasures girt about
Seek you, for I am wearied out.”
SEEKING REST
My Mother said: The child is changed
That used to be so still;
All the day long she sings, and sings,
And seems to think no ill;
She laughs as if some inward joy
Her heart would overfill.
My Sisters said: Now prithee tell
Thy secret unto us:
Let us rejoice with thee; for all
Is surely prosperous,
Thou art so merry: tell us Sweet:
We had not used thee thus.
My Mother says: What ails the child
Lately so blythe of cheer?
Art sick or sorry? nay, it is
The Winter of the year;
Wait till the Spring time comes again
And the sweet flowers appear.
My Sisters say: Come, sit with us,
That we may weep with thee:
Show us thy grief that we may grieve:
Yea, haply, if we see
Thy sorrow, we may ease it; but
Shall share it certainly.
How should I share my pain, who kept
My pleasure all my own?
My Spring will never come again;
My pretty flowers have blown
For the last time; I can but sit
And think and weep alone.
A YEAR AFTERWARDS
Things are so changed since last we met:
Come; I will show you where she lies.
Doubtless the old look fills her eyes,
And the old patient smile is set
Upon her mouth: it was even so
When last I saw her stretched and still,
So pale and calm I could not weep:
The steady sweetness did not go
Thro’ the long week she lay asleep,
Until the dust was heaped on her.
Now many-feathered grasses grow
Above her bosom: come; I will
Show you all this, and we can talk
Going; it is a pleasant walk
And the wind makes it pleasanter.
This is the very path that she
So often trod with eager feet
Tho’ weary. The dusk branches meet
Above, making green fretted work,
The screen between my saint and me.
There, where the softest sunbeams lurk,
Cannot you fancy she may be
Leaning down to me from her rest;
And shaking her long golden hair
Thro’ the thick branches to my face,
That I may feel she still is mine? —
Is not this wood a pleasant place?
To me the faintest breath of air
Seems here to whisper tenderly
That she, mine own, will not forget.
It may be selfishness; and yet
I like to think her joy may not
Be perfected, although divine
In all the glory of the blest,
Without me: that the greenest spot
And shadiest, would not suffice,
Without me, even in Paradise.
But we must leave the wood to go
Across the sunny fields of wheat;
I used to fancy that the grass
And daisies loved to touch her feet.
This was the way we used to pass
Together; rain nor wind nor snow
Could hinder her, until her strength
Failed utterly; and when at length
She was too weak, they put her bed
Close to the window; there she lay
Counting the Church chimes one by one
For many weeks: at last a day
Came when her patient watch was done,
And someone told me she was dead.
Now we can see the Church tower; look,
Where the old flaky yew trees stand.
There is a certain shady nook
Among them, where she used to sit
When weary: I have held her hand
So often there: one day she said
That sometimes, when we sat so, she
Could fancy what being dead must be,
And long for it if shared by me: —
She had no cause for dreading it,
And never once conceived my dread.
This path leads to the Western door
Where the sun casts his latest beam,
And hard beside it is her grave.
I sowed those grasses there that wave
Like down, but would sow nothing more,
No flowers, as if her resting place
Could want for sweetness; where she is
Is sweetest of all sweetnesses.
If you look closely, you can trace
A Cross formed by the grass, above
Her head: and sometimes I could dream
She sees the Cross, an
d feels the love
That planted it; and prays that I
May come and share her hidden rest;
May even lie where she doth lie,
With the same turf above my breast,
And the same stars and silent sky.
TWO THOUGHTS OF DEATH
1.
Her heart that loved me once is rottenness
Now and corruption; and her life is dead
That was to have been one with mine she said.
The earth must lie with such a cruel stress
On her eyes where the white lids used to press;
Foul worms fill up her mouth so sweet and red;
Foul worms are underneath her graceful head.
Yet these, being born of her from nothingness
These worms are certainly flesh of her flesh. —
How is it that the grass is rank and green,
And the dew dropping rose is brave and fresh
Above what was so sweeter far than they?
Even as her beauty hath passed quite away
Their’s too shall be as tho’ it had not been.
2.
So I said underneath the dusky trees:
But because I still loved her memory
I stooped to pluck a pale anemone
And lo! my hand lighted upon heartsease
Not fully blown: while with new life from these
Fluttered a starry moth that rapidly
Rose toward the sun: sunlighted flashed on me
Its wings that seemed to throb like heart pulses.
Far far away it flew far out of sight,
From earth and flowers of earth it passed away
As tho’ it flew straight up into the light.
Then my heart answered me: Thou fool to say
That she is dead whose night is turned to day,
And whose day shall no more turn back to night.
THREE MOMENTS
The Child said: “Pretty bird
“Come back and play with me.”
The bird said: “It is in vain,
“For I am free.
“I am free, I will not stay,
“But will fly far away,
“In the woods to sing and play,
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 62