Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti

by Christina Rossetti

  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,