“Far away, far away.”
The Child sought her Mother:
“I have lost my bird;” said she
Weeping bitterly:
But the Mother made her answer,
Half sighing pityingly,
Half smiling cheerily:
“Tho’ thy bird come nevermore
“Do not weep;
“Find another playfellow
“Child, and keep
“Tears for future pain more deep.”
“Sweet rose do not wither,”
The Girl said.
But a blight had touched its heart
And it drooped its crimson head.
In the morning it had opened
Full of life and bloom,
But the leaves fell one by one
Till the twilight gloom.
One by one the leaves fell
By summer winds blown from their stem;
They fell upon the dewy earth
Which nourished once now tainted them.
Again the young Girl wept
And sought her Mother’s ear:
“My rose is dead so full of grace,
“The very rose I meant to place
“In the wreath that I wear.”
“Nay, never weep for such as this;”
The Mother answered her:
“But weave another crown, less fair
“Perhaps, but fitter for thy hair.
“And keep thy tears,” the Mother said:
“For something heavier.”
The Woman knelt; but did not pray
Nor weep nor cry; she only said:
“Not this, not this:” and clasped her hands
Against her heart and bowed her head
While the great struggle shook the bed.
“Not this, not this:” tears did not fall:
“Not this:” it was all
She could say; no sobs would come;
The mortal grief was almost dumb. —
At length when it was over, when
She knew it was and would be so,
She cried: “Oh Mother, where are they,
“The tears that used to flow
“So easily? one single drop
“Might save my reason now, or stop
“My heart from breaking. Blessed tears
“Wasted in former years!”
Then the grave Mother made reply:
“Oh Daughter mine be of good cheer,
“Rejoicing thou canst shed no tear.
“Thy pain is almost over now.
“Once more thy heart shall throb with pain,
“But then shall never throb again.
“Oh happy thou who canst not weep,
“Oh happy thou!”
ONCE
She was whiter than the ermine
That half shadowed neck and hand,
And her tresses were more golden
Than their golden band;
Snowy ostrich plumes she wore
Yet I almost loved her more
In the simple time before.
Then she plucked the stately lilies
Knowing not she was more fair,
And she listened to the skylark
In the morning air.
Then, a kerchief all her crown,
She looked for the acorns brown,
Bent their bough and shook them down.
Then she thought of Christmas holly
And of maybloom in sweet May;
Then she loved to pick the cherries
And to turn the hay.
She was humble then and meek,
And the blush upon her cheek
Told of much she could not speak.
Now she is a noble lady,
With calm voice not overloud;
Very courteous in her action,
Yet you think her proud;
Much too haughty to affect;
Too indifferent to direct,
Or be angry, or suspect;
Doing all from self-respect.
THREE NUNS
1.
“Sospira questo core
E non so dir perchè.”
Shadow, shadow on the wall
Spread thy shelter over me;
Wrap me with a heavy pall,
With the dark that none may see.
Fold thyself around me; come:
Shut out all the troublesome
Noise of life; I would be dumb.
Shadow thou hast reached my feet,
Rise and cover up my head;
Be my stainless winding sheet,
Buried before I am dead.
Lay thy cool upon my breast:
Once I thought that joy was best,
Now I only care for rest.
By the grating of my cell
Sings a solitary bird;
Sweeter than the vesper bell,
Sweetest song was ever heard.
Sing upon thy living tree:
Happy echoes answer thee,
Happy songster, sing to me.
When my yellow hair was curled
Though men saw and called me fair,
I was weary in the world
Full of vanity and care.
Gold was left behind, curls shorn
When I came here; that same morn
Made a bride no gems adorn.
Here wrapped in my spotless veil,
Curtained from intruding eyes,
I whom prayers and fasts turn pale
Wait the flush of Paradise.
But the vigil is so long
My heart sickens: — sing thy song,
Blithe bird that canst do no wrong.
Sing on, making me forget
Present sorrow and past sin.
Sing a little longer yet:
Soon the matins will begin;
And I must turn back again
To that aching worse than pain
I must bear and not complain.
Sing, that in thy song I may
Dream myself once more a child
In the green woods far away
Plucking clematis and wild
Hyacinths, till pleasure grew
Tired, yet so was pleasure too,
Resting with no work to do.
In the thickest of the wood,
I remember, long ago
How a stately oak tree stood,
With a sluggish pool below
Almost shadowed out of sight.
On the waters dark as night,
Water-lilies lay like light.
There, while yet a child, I thought
I could live as in a dream,
Secret, neither found nor sought:
Till the lilies on the stream,
Pure as virgin purity,
Would seem scarce too pure for me: —
Ah, but that can never be.
2.
“Sospirerà d’amore,
Ma non lo dice a me.”
I loved him, yes, where was the sin?
I loved him with my heart and soul.
But I pressed forward to no goal,
There was no prize I strove to win.
Show me my sin that I may see: —
Throw the first stone, thou Pharisee.
I loved him, but I never sought
That he should know that I was fair.
I prayed for him; was my sin prayer?
I sacrificed, he never bought.
He nothing gave, he nothing took;
We never bartered look for look.
My voice rose in the sacred choir,
The choir of Nuns; do you condemn
Even if, when kneeling among them,
Faith, zeal and love kindled a fire
And I prayed for his happiness
Who knew not? was my error this?
I only prayed that in the end
His trust and hope may not be vain.
I prayed not we may meet again:
I would not let our names asce
nd,
No, not to Heaven, in the same breath;
Nor will I join the two in death.
Oh sweet is death; for I am weak
And weary, and it giveth rest.
The Crucifix lies on my breast,
And all night long it seems to speak
Of rest; I hear it through my sleep,
And the great comfort makes me weep.
Oh sweet is death that bindeth up
The broken and the bleeding heart.
The draught chilled, but a cordial part
Lurked at the bottom of the cup;
And for my patience will my Lord
Give an exceeding great reward.
Yea, the reward is almost won,
A crown of glory and a palm.
Soon I shall sing the unknown psalm;
Soon gaze on light, not on the sun;
And soon, with surer faith, shall pray
For him, and cease not night nor day.
My life is breaking like a cloud;
God judgeth not as man doth judge. —
Nay, bear with me; you need not grudge
This peace; the vows that I have vowed
Have all been kept: Eternal Strength
Holds me, though mine own fails at length.
Bury me in the Convent ground
Among the flowers that are so sweet;
And lay a green turf at my feet,
Where thick trees cast a gloom around.
At my head let a Cross be, white
Through the long blackness of the night.
Now kneel and pray beside my bed
That I may sleep being free from pain:
And pray that I may wake again
After His Likeness, Who hath said
(Faithful is He Who promiseth,)
We shall be satisfied Therewith.
3.
“Rispondimi, cor mio,
Perchè sospiri tu?
Risponde: Voglio Iddio,
Sospiro per Gesù.”
My heart is as a freeborn bird
Caged in my cruel breast,
That flutters, flutters evermore,
Nor sings, nor is at rest.
But beats against the prison bars,
As knowing its own nest
Far off beyond the clouded West.
My soul is as a hidden fount
Shut in by clammy clay,
That struggles with an upward moan;
Striving to force its way
Up through the turf, over the grass,
Up, up into the day,
Where twilight no more turneth grey.
Oh for the grapes of the True Vine
Growing in Paradise,
Whose tendrils join the Tree of Life
To that which maketh wise.
Growing beside the Living Well
Whose sweetest waters rise
Where tears are wiped from tearful eyes.
Oh for the waters of that Well
Round which the Angels stand.
Oh for the Shadow of the Rock
On my heart’s weary land.
Oh for the Voice to guide me when
I turn to either hand,
Guiding me till I reach Heaven’s strand.
Thou World from which I am come out,
Keep all thy gems and gold;
Keep thy delights and precious things,
Thou that art waxing old.
My heart shall beat with a new life,
When thine is dead and cold:
When thou dost fear I shall be bold.
When Earth shall pass away with all
Her pride and pomp of sin,
The City builded without hands
Shall safely shut me in.
All the rest is but vanity
Which others strive to win:
Where their hopes end my joys begin.
I will not look upon a rose
Though it is fair to see:
The flowers planted in Paradise
Are budding now for me.
Red roses like love visible
Are blowing on their tree,
Or white like virgin purity.
I will not look unto the sun
Which setteth night by night:
In the untrodden courts of Heaven
My crown shall be more bright.
Lo, in the New Jerusalem
Founded and built aright
My very feet shall tread on light.
With foolish riches of this World
I have bought treasure, where
Nought perisheth: for this white veil
I gave my golden hair;
I gave the beauty of my face
For vigils, fasts and prayer;
I gave all for this Cross I bear.
My heart trembled when first I took
The vows which must be kept;
At first it was a weariness
To watch when once I slept.
The path was rough and sharp with thorns;
My feet bled as I stepped;
The Cross was heavy and I wept.
While still the names rang in mine ears
Of daughter, sister, wife;
The outside world still looked so fair
To my weak eyes, and rife
With beauty; my heart almost failed;
Then in the desperate strife
I prayed, as one who prays for life,
Until I grew to love what once
Had been so burdensome.
So now when I am faint, because
Hope deferred seems to numb
My heart, I yet can plead; and say
Although my lips are dumb:
“The Spirit and the Bride say, Come.”
SONG: WE BURIED HER AMONG THE FLOWERS
We buried her among the flowers
At falling of the leaf,
And choked back all our tears; her joy
Could never be our grief.
She lies among the living flowers
And grass, the only thing
That perishes; — or is it that
Our Autumn was her Spring?
Doubtless, if we could see her face,
The smile is settled there
Which almost broke our hearts, when last
We knelt by her in prayer.
When with tired eyes and failing breath
And hands crossed on her breast
Perhaps she saw her Guardian spread
His wings above her rest.
So she sleeps hidden in the flowers:
But yet a little while
And we shall see her wake, and rise
Fair, with the selfsame smile.
THE WATCHERS
She fell asleep among the flowers
In the sober Autumn hours.
Three there are about her bed,
At her side and feet and head.
At her head standeth the Cross
For which all else she counted loss:
Still and steadfast at her feet
Doth her Guardian Angel sit:
Prayers of truest love abide
Wrapping her on every side.
The Holy Cross standeth alone,
Beneath the white moon, whitest stone.
Evil spirits come not near
Its shadow, shielding from all fear;
Once she bore it in her breast,
Now it certifies her rest.
Humble violets grow around
Its base, sweetening the grassy ground,
Leaf-hidden; so she hid from praise
Of men her pious holy ways.
Higher about it, twining close,
Clingeth a crimson thorny rose;
So from her heart’s good seed of love
Thorns sprang below, flowers spring above.
Tho’ yet his vigil doth not cease,
Her Angel sits in perfect peace,
With white folded wings; for she
He watches, now is pure as he.
He watches with his loving eyes
For the day when she shall rise;
When full of glory and of grace
She shall behold him face to face.
Tho’ she is safe for ever, yet
Human love doth not forget;
But prays that in her deep
Grave she may sleep a blessed sleep,
Till when time and the world are past
She may find mercy at the last.
So these three do hedge her in
From sorrow as death does from sin.
So freed from earthly taint and pain
May they all meet in Heaven. Amen.
ANNIE
Annie is fairer than her kith
And kinder than her kin;
Her eyes are like the open heaven
Holy and pure from sin;
Her heart is like an ordered house
Good fairies harbour in;
Oh happy he who wins the love
That I can never win.
Her sisters stand as hyacinths
Around the perfect rose:
They bloom and open to the full,
My bud will scarce unclose;
They are for every butterfly
That comes and sips and goes,
My bud hides in the tender green
Most sweet and hardly shows.
Oh cruel kindness in soft eyes
That are no more than kind,
On which I gaze my heart away
Till the tears make me blind.
How is it others find the way
That I can never find
To make her laugh that sweetest laugh
Which leaves all else behind?
Her hair is like the golden corn
A low wind breathes upon;
Or like the golden harvest moon
When all the mists are gone;
Or like a stream with golden sands
On which the sun has shone
Day after day in summer time
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 63