A rose crimson and blushing at the core,
Hedged in with thorns behind it and before:
A fountain in the grass,
Whose shadowy waters pass
Only to nourish birds and furnish food
For squirrels of the wood:
An oak deep in the forest’s heart, the house
Of black-eyed tiny mouse;
Its strong roots fit for fuel roofing in
The hoarded nuts, acorns and grains of wheat;
Shutting them from the wind and scorching heat,
And sheltering them when the rains begin:
A precious pearl deep buried in the sea
Where none save fishes be:
The fullest merriest note
For which the skylark strains his silver throat,
Heard only in the sky
By other birds that fitfully
Chase one another as they fly:
The ripest plum down tumbled to the ground
By southern winds most musical of sound,
But by no thirsty traveller found:
Honey of wild bees in their ordered cells
Stored, not for human mouths to taste: —
I said, smiling superior down: What waste
Of good, where no man dwells.
This I said on a pleasant day in June
Before the sun had set, tho’ a white moon
Already flaked the quiet blue
Which not a star looked thro.’
But still the air was warm, and drowsily
It blew into my face:
So since that same day I had wandered deep
Into the country, I sought out a place
For rest beneath a tree,
And very soon forgot myself in sleep:
Not so mine own words had forgotten me.
Mine eyes were opened to behold
All hidden things,
And mine ears heard all secret whisperings:
So my proud tongue that had been bold
To carp and to reprove,
Was silenced by the force of utter Love.
All voices of all things inanimate
Join with the song of Angels and the song
Of blessed Spirits, chiming with
Their Hallelujahs. One wind wakeneth
Across the sleeping sea, crisping along
The waves, and brushes thro’ the great
Forests and tangled hedges, and calls out
Of rivers a clear sound,
And makes the ripe corn rustle on the ground,
And murmurs in a shell;
Till all their voices swell
Above the clouds in one loud hymn
Joining the song of Seraphim,
Or like pure incense circle round about
The walls of Heaven, or like a well-spring rise
In shady Paradise.
A lily blossoming unseen
Holds honey in its silver cup
Whereon a bee may sup,
Till being full she takes the rest
And stores it in her waxen nest:
While the fair blossom lifted up
On its one stately stem of green
Is type of her, the Undefiled,
Arrayed in white, whose eyes are mild
As a white dove’s, whose garment is
Blood-cleansed from all impurities
And earthly taints,
Her robe the righteousness of Saints.
And other eyes than our’s
Were made to look on flowers,
Eyes of small birds and insects small:
The deep sun-blushing rose
Round which the prickles close
Opens her bosom to them all.
The tiniest living thing
That soars on feathered wing,
Or crawls among the long grass out of sight,
Has just as good a right
To its appointed portion of delight
As any King.
Why should we grudge a hidden water stream
To birds and squirrels while we have enough?
As if a nightingale should cease to sing
Lest we should hear, or finch leafed out of sight
Warbling its fill in summer light;
As if sweet violets in the spring
Should cease to blow, for fear our path should seem
Less weary or less rough.
So every oak that stands a house
For skilful mouse,
And year by year renews its strength,
Shakes acorns from a hundred boughs
Which shall be oaks at length.
Who hath weighed the waters and shall say
What is hidden in the depths from day?
Pearls and precious stones and golden sands,
Wondrous weeds and blossoms rare,
Kept back from human hands,
But good and fair,
A silent praise as pain is silent prayer.
A hymn, an incense rising toward the skies,
As our whole life should rise;
An offering without stint from earth below,
Which Love accepteth so.
Thus is it with a warbling bird,
With fruit bloom-ripe and full of seed,
With honey which the wild bees draw
From flowers, and store for future need
By a perpetual law.
We want the faith that hath not seen
Indeed, but hath believed His truth
Who witnessed that His work was good:
So we pass cold to age from youth.
Alas for us: for we have heard
And known, but have not understood.
O earth, earth, earth, thou yet shalt bow
Who art so fair and lifted up,
Thou yet shalt drain the bitter cup.
Men’s eyes that wait upon thee now,
All eyes shall see thee lost and mean,
Exposed and valued at thy worth,
While thou shalt stand ashamed and dumb. —
Ah, when the Son of Man shall come,
Shall He find faith upon the earth? —
NEXT OF KIN
The shadows gather round me, while you are in the sun;
My day is almost ended, but yours is just begun:
The winds are singing to us both and the streams are singing still,
And they fill your heart with music, but mine they cannot fill.
Your home is built in sunlight, mine in another day;
Your home is close at hand, sweet friend, but mine is far away:
Your bark is in the haven where you fain would be;
I must launch out into the deep, across the unknown sea.
You, white as dove or lily or spirit of the light;
I, stained and cold and glad to hide in the cold dark night:
You, joy to many a loving heart and light to many eyes;
I, lonely in the knowledge earth is full of vanities.
Yet when your day is over, as mine is nearly done,
And when your race is finished, as mine is almost run,
You, like me, shall cross your hands and bow your graceful head;
Yea, we twain shall sleep together in an equal bed.
LET THEM REJOICE IN THEIR BEDS
The winds sing to us where we lie,
They sing to us a pleasant song;
Sweeter than song of mortal mouth,
Spice laden from the sunny south.
They say: This is not death you die;
This slumber shall not hold you long.
The north winds stir around our rest,
Their whispers speak to us and say:
Sleep yet awhile secure and deep,
A little while the blessed sleep;
For your inheritance is best,
And night shall yet bring forth the day.
The western winds are whispering too
Of love, with faith and hope as yet,
Of consummation
that shall be,
Of fulness as the unfathomed sea,
When all creation shall be new
And day arise that shall not set.
But from the east a word is sent
To which all other words are dumb:
Lo, I come quickly, saith the Lord,
Myself thy exceeding great Reward: —
While we with thirsty hearts intent
Answer: Yea, come, Lord Jesus, come.
PORTRAITS
An easy lazy length of limb,
Dark eyes and features from the south,
A short-legged meditative pipe
Set in a supercilious mouth;
Ink and a pen and papers laid
Down on a table for the night,
Beside a semi-dozing man
Who wakes to go to bed by light.
A pair of brothers brotherly,
Unlike and yet how much the same
In heart and high-toned intellect,
In face and bearing, hope and aim:
Friends of the selfsame treasured friends
And of one home the dear delight,
Beloved of many a loving heart
And cherished both in mine, good night.
WHITSUN EVE
The white dove cooeth in her downy nest,
Keeping her young ones warm beneath her breast:
The white moon saileth thro’ the cool clear sky,
Screened by a tender mist in passing by:
The white rose buds, with thorns upon its stem,
All the more precious and more dear for them:
The stream shines silver in the tufted grass,
The white clouds scarcely dim it as they pass:
Deep in the valleys lily cups are white,
They send up incense all the holy night:
Our souls are white, made clean in Blood once shed:
White blessed Angels watch around our bed: —
O spotless Lamb of God, still keep us so,
Thou Who wert born for us in time of snow.
WHAT?
Strengthening as secret manna,
Fostering as clouds above,
Kind as a hovering dove,
Full as a plenteous river,
Our glory and our banner
For ever and forever.
Dear as a dying cadence
Of music in the drowsy night;
Fair as the flowers which maidens
Pluck for an hour’s delight,
And then forget them quite.
Gay as a cowslip meadow
Fresh opening to the sun
When new day is begun;
Soft as a sunny shadow
When day is almost done.
Glorious as purple twilight,
Pleasant as budding tree,
Untouched as any islet
Shrined in an unknown sea;
Sweet as a fragrant rose amid the dew; —
As sweet, as fruitless too.
A bitter dream to wake from,
But oh how pleasant while we dream;
A poisoned fount to take from,
But oh how sweet the stream.
A PAUSE
They made the chamber sweet with flowers and leaves,
And the bed sweet with flowers on which I lay;
While my soul, love-bound, loitered on its way.
I did not hear the birds about the eaves,
Nor hear the reapers talk among the sheaves:
Only my soul kept watch from day to day,
My thirsty soul kept watch for one away: —
Perhaps he loves, I thought, remembers, grieves.
At length there came the step upon the stair,
Upon the lock the old familiar hand:
Then first my spirit seemed to scent the air
Of Paradise; then first the tardy sand
Of time ran golden; and I felt my hair
Put on a glory, and my soul expand.
HOLY INNOCENTS
Sleep, little Baby, sleep,
The holy Angels love thee,
And guard thy bed and keep
A blessed watch above thee.
No spirit can come near
Nor evil beast to harm thee;
Sleep, Sweet, devoid of fear
Where nothing need alarm thee.
The Love Which doth not sleep,
The eternal Arms surround thee;
The Shepherd of the sheep
In perfect love hath found thee.
Sleep thro’ the holy night
Christ-kept from snare and sorrow
Until thou wake to light
And love and warmth tomorrow.
THERE REMAINETH THEREFORE A REST FOR THE PEOPLE OF GOD
1.
“Ye have forgotten the exhortation” —
Come blessed sleep, most full, most perfect, come;
Come sleep, if so I may forget the whole;
Forget my body and forget my soul,
Forget how long life is and troublesome.
Come happy sleep to soothe my heart or numb,
Arrest my weary spirit or control;
Till light be dark to me from pole to pole,
And winds and echoes and low songs be dumb.
Come sleep and lap me into perfect calm,
Lap me from all the world and weariness:
Come secret sleep that hidest us from harm,
Safe sheltered in a hidden cool recess:
Come heavy dreamless sleep, and close and press
Upon mine eyes thy fingers dropping balm.
2.
“Which speaketh unto you as unto children.”
Art thou so weary then, poor thirsty soul?
Have patience, in due season thou shalt sleep.
Mount yet a little while, the path is steep;
Strain yet a little while to reach the goal;
Do battle with thyself, achieve, control:
Till night come down with blessed slumber, deep
As love, and seal thine eyes no more to weep
Thro’ long tired vigils while the planets roll.
Have patience, for thou too shalt sleep at length,
Lapped in the pleasant shade of Paradise.
My Hands That bled for thee shall close thine eyes,
My Heart That bled for thee shall be thy Rest:
I will sustain with everlasting Strength,
And thou, with John, shalt lie upon my Breast.
ANNIE: IT’S NOT FOR EARTHLY BREAD
Annie It’s not for earthly bread, Annie,
And it’s not for earthly wine,
And it’s not for all thou art, Annie,
Nor for any gift of thine:
It’s for other food and other love
And other gifts I pine.
I long all night and day, Annie,
In this glorious month of June,
Tho’ the roses all are blossoming
And the birds are all in tune:
I dream and long all night, Annie,
Beneath the tender moon.
There is a dearer home than this
In a land that’s far away,
And a better crown than cankered gold,
Or withering leaves of bay:
There’s a richer love than thine, Annie,
Must fill an endless day.
I long to be alone indeed,
I long to sleep at last;
To know the lifelong fever
And sick weariness are past;
To feel the night is come indeed,
And the gate secure and fast.
Oh gate of death, of the blessed night,
That shall open not again
On this world of shame and sorrow,
Where slow ages wax and wane,
Where are signs and seasons, days and nights,
And mighty winds and rain.
I long to dwell in silence,
In twilight cool and dim:
It may be sometimes seeing
It may be sometimes catching
Faint echoes of their hymn.
I am tired of all the shows
And of all the songs of earth;
I am sick of the cold sky overhead,
And the cold land of my birth;
I am sick for the home-land of delight
And love and endless worth.
Is the day wearing toward the west? —
Far off cool shadows pass,
A visible refreshment
Across the sultry grass;
Far off low mists are mustering,
A broken shifting mass.
I know there comes a struggle
Before the utter calm,
And a searching pain like fire
Before the healing balm; —
But the pain shall cease, and the struggle cease,
And we shall take no harm.
Doubtless the Angels wonder
That we can live at ease
While all around is full of change,
Yea, full of vanities:
They wonder we can think to fill
Our hearts with such as these.
Still in the deepest knowledge
Some depth is left unknown;
Still in the merriest music lurks
A plaintive undertone;
Still with the closest friend some throb
Of life is felt alone.
But vain it were to linger
On the race we have to run,
For that which was must be again
Till time itself is done;
Yea, there is nothing new we know
At all beneath the sun.
I am sick for love, and moan
Like a solitary dove:
Love is as deep as hell, Annie,
And as high as heaven above;
There’s nothing in all the world, Annie,
That can compete with love.
Time’s summer breath is sweet, his sands
Ebb sparkling as they flow,
Yet some are sick that this should end
Which is from long ago: —
Are not the fields already white
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 65