To harvest in the glow? —
God puts the sickle to the corn
And reaps it when He will
From every watered valley
And from every fruitful hill:
He holdeth time in His Right Hand,
To check or to fulfil.
There shall come another harvest
Than was in days of yore:
The reapers shall be Angels,
Our God shall purge the floor: —
No more seed-time, no more harvest,
Then for evermore.
Come, let us kneel together
Once again love, I and thou;
We have prayed apart and wept apart,
But may weep together now:
Once we looked back together
With our hands upon the plough.
A little while, and we must part
Again, as on that day:
My spirit shall go forth alone
To tread the untried way;
Then thou shalt watch alone once more,
And kneel alone to pray.
When the shadows thicken round me
And the silence grows apace,
And I cannot hear thy voice, Annie,
Nor look upon thy face,
Wilt thou kneel for me and plead for me
Before the Throne of Grace? —
So surely if my spirit
Hath knowledge while it lies
In the outer courts of Heaven,
It shall watch with longing eyes
And pray that thou mayest also come
To dwell in Paradise.
SEASONS
In spring time when the leaves are young,
Clear dewdrops gleam like jewels, hung
On boughs the fair birds roost among.
When summer comes with sweet unrest,
Birds weary of their mother’s breast,
And look abroad and leave the nest.
In autumn ere the waters freeze,
The swallows fly across the seas: —
If we could fly away with these! —
In winter when the birds are gone,
The sun himself looks starved and wan,
And starved the snow he shines upon.
THOU SLEEPEST WHERE THE LILIES FADE
Thou sleepest where the lilies fade,
Thou dwellest where the lilies fade not;
Sweet, when thine earthly part decayed
Thy heavenly part decayed not.
Thou dwellest where the roses blow,
The crimson roses bud and blossom;
While on thine eyes is heaped the snow,
The snow upon thy bosom.
I WISH I WERE A LITTLE BIRD
I wish I were a little bird
That out of sight doth soar,
I wish I were a song once heard
But often pondered o’er,
Or shadow of a lily stirred
By wind upon the floor,
Or echo of a loving word
Worth all that went before,
Or memory of a hope deferred
That springs again no more.
TWO PARTED
“Sing of a love lost and forgotten,
“Sing of a joy finished and o’er,
“Sing of a heart core-cold and rotten,
“Sing of a hope springing no more.” —
— ”Sigh for a heart aching and sore.” —
“I was most true and my own love betrayed me,
“I was most true and she would none of me.
“Was it the cry of the world that dismayed thee?
“Love, I had bearded the wide world for thee.”
— ”Hark to the sorrowful sound of the sea.” —
“Still in my dreams she comes tender and gracious,
“Still in my dreams love looks out of her eyes:
“Oh that the love of a dream were veracious,
“Or that thus dreaming I might not arise!”
— ”Oh for the silence that stilleth all sighs.” —
ALL NIGHT I DREAM YOU LOVE ME WELL
All night I dream you love me well,
All day I dream that you are cold:
Which is the dream? ah, who can tell,
Ah would that it were told.
So I should know my certain doom,
Know all the gladness or the pain;
So pass into the dreamless tomb,
Or never doubt again.
FOR ROSALINE’S ALBUM
Do you hear the low winds singing,
And streams singing on their bed? —
Very distant bells are ringing
In a chapel for the dead: —
Death-pale better than life-red.
Mother, come to me in rest,
And bring little May to see. —
Shall I bid no other guest? —
Seven slow nights have passed away
Over my forgotten clay:
None must come save you and she.
CARE FLIETH
Care flieth,
Hope and fear together,
Love dieth
In the Autumn weather.
For a friend
Even care is pleasant;
When fear doth end
Hope is no more present:
Autumn silences the turtle dove; —
In blank Autumn who could speak of love?
EPITAPH
A slave yet wearing on my head a crown,
A captive from whose eyes no tears ran down,
Bound with no chain, compelled to do no work,
I fell a victim to the jealous Turk.
THE P. R. B
The P. R. B. is in its decadence: —
for Woolner in Australia cooks his chops;
And Hunt is yearning for the land of Cheops;
D. G. Rossetti shuns the vulgar optic;
While William M. Rossetti merely lops
His B.s in English disesteemed as Coptic;
Calm Stephens in the twilight smokes his pipe
But long the dawning of his public day;
And he at last, the champion, great Millais
Attaining academic opulence
Winds up his signature with A. R. A.: —
So rivers merge in the perpetual sea,
So luscious fruit must fall when over ripe,
And so the consummated P. R. B.
SEASONS: CROCUSES AND SNOWDROPS WITHER
Crocuses and snowdrops wither,
Violets primroses together,
Fading with the fading spring
Before a fuller blossoming.
O sweet summer pass not soon,
Stay awhile the harvest moon;
O sweetest summer do not go,
For autumn’s next and next the snow.
When autumn comes the days are drear,
It is the downfall of the year:
We heed the wind and falling leaf
More than the withered harvest sheaf.
Dreary winter come at last,
Come quickly, so be quickly past;
Dusk and sluggish winter wane
Till spring and sunlight dawn again.
WHO HAVE A FORM OF GODLINESS
When I am sick and tired it is God’s will;
Also, God’s will alone is sure and best: —
So in my weariness I find my rest,
And so in poverty I take my fill:
Therefore I see my good in midst of ill,
Therefore in loneliness I build my nest;
And thro’ hot noon pant toward the shady west,
And hope in sickening disappointment still.
So when the times of restitution come,
The sweet times of refreshing come at last,
My God shall fill my longings to the brim:
Therefore I wait and look and long for Him;
Not wearied tho’ the work is wearisome,
Nor fainting tho’ the time be almost past.
BALLAD
Soft white lamb in the daisy meadow,
Come hither and play with me,
For I am lonesome and I am tired
Underneath the apple tree.
There’s your husband if you’re lonesome, lady,
And your bed if you want for rest,
And your baby for a playfellow
With a soft hand for your breast.
Fair white dove in the sunshine,
Perched on the ashen bough,
Come and perch by me and coo to me
While the buds are blowing now.
I must keep my nestlings warm, lady,
Underneath my downy breast;
There’s your baby to coo and crow to you
While I brood upon my nest.
Faint white rose come lie on my heart,
Come lie there with your thorn;
For I’ll be dead at the vesper bell
And buried the morrow morn.
There’s blood on your lily breast, lady,
Like roses when they blow,
And there’s blood upon your little hand
That should be white as snow;
I will stay amid my fellows
Where the lilies grow.
But its oh my own own little babe
That I had you here to kiss,
And to comfort me in the strange next world
Tho’ I slighted you so in this.
You shall kiss both cheek and chin, mother,
And kiss me between the eyes,
Or ever the moon is on her way
And the pleasant stars arise;
You shall kiss and kiss your fill, mother,
In the nest of Paradise.
A STUDY. (A SOUL.)
She stands as pale as Parian statues stand;
Like Cleopatra when she turned at bay,
And felt her strength above the Roman sway,
And felt the aspic writhing in her hand.
Her face is steadfast toward the shadowy land,
For dim beyond it looms the land of day;
Her feet are steadfast; all the arduous way
That foot-track hath not wavered on the sand.
She stands there like a beacon thro’ the night,
A pale clear beacon where the storm-drift is;
She stands alone, a wonder deathly white;
She stands there patient, nerved with inner might,
Indomitable in her feebleness,
Her face and will athirst against the light.
THERE REMAINETH THEREFORE A REST
Very cool that bed must be
Where our last sleep shall be slept:
There for weary vigils kept,
There for tears that we have wept,
Is our guerdon certainly.
Underneath the growing grass,
Underneath the living flowers,
Deeper than the sound of showers; —
There we shall not count the hours
By the shadows as they pass.
No more struggling then at length,
Only slumber everywhere;
Nothing more to do or bear:
We shall rest, and resting there
Eagle-like renew our strength.
In the grave will be no space
For the purple of the proud,
They must mingle with the crowd;
In the wrappings of a shroud
Jewels would be out of place.
Youth and health will be but vain,
Courage reckoned of no worth;
There a very little girth
Shall hold round what once the earth
Seemed too narrow to contain.
High and low and rich and poor,
All will fare alike at last:
The old promise standeth fast:
None shall care then if the past
Held more joys for him or fewer.
There no laughter shall be heard,
Nor the heavy sound of sighs;
Sleep shall seal the aching eyes;
All the ancient and the wise
There shall utter not a word.
Yet it may be we shall hear
How the mounting skylark sings
And the bell for matins rings;
Or perhaps the whisperings
Of white Angels sweet and clear.
Sun or moon hath never shone
In that hidden depth of night;
But the souls there washed and white
Are more fair than fairest light
Mortal eye hath looked upon.
The die cast whose throw is life —
Rest complete; not one in seven —
Souls love-perfected and shriven
Waiting at the door of heaven,
Perfected from fear of strife.
What a calm when all is done,
Wearing vigil, prayer and fast: —
All fulfilled from first to last: —
All the length of time gone past
And eternity begun.
Fear and hope and chastening rod
Urge us on the narrow way:
Bear we still as best we may
Heat and burden of the day,
Struggling panting up to God.
YE HAVE FORGOTTEN THE EXHORTATION
Angel
Bury thy dead, dear friend,
Between the night and day;
Where depths of summer shade are cool,
And murmurs of a summer pool
And windy murmurs stray: —
Soul
Ah, gone away,
Ah, dear and lost delight,
Gone from me and forever out of sight.
Angel
Bury thy dead, dear love,
And make his bed most fair above;
The latest buds shall still
Blow there, and the first violets too,
And there a turtle dove
Shall brood and coo: —
Soul
I cannot make the nest
So warm, but he may find it chill
In solitary rest.
Angel
Bury thy dead heart-deep;
Take patience till the sun be set;
There are no tears for him to weep,
No doubts to haunt him yet:
Take comfort, he will not forget: —
Soul
Then I will watch beside his sleep;
Will watch alone,
And make my moan
Because the harvest is so long to reap.
Angel
The fields are white to harvest, look and see,
Are white abundantly.
The harvest moon shines full and clear,
The harvest time is near,
Be of good cheer: —
Soul
Ah, woe is me;
I have no heart for harvest time,
Grown sick with hope deferred from chime to chime.
Angel
But One can give thee heart, thy Lord and his,
Can raise both thee and him
To shine with Seraphim
And pasture where the eternal fountain is.
Can give thee of that tree
Whose leaves are health for thee;
Can give thee robes made clean and white,
And love, and all delight,
And beauty where the day turns not to night.
Who knocketh at His door
And presseth in, goes out no more.
Kneel as thou hast not knelt before —
The time is short — and smite
Upon thy breast and pray with all thy might: —
Soul
O Lord, my heart is broken for my sin:
Yet hasten Thine Own day
And come away.
Is not time full? Oh put the sickle in,
O Lord, begin.
GUESSES
Was it a chance that made her pause
One moment at the opened door,
Pale where
she stood so flushed before
As one a spirit overawes: —
Or might it rather be because
She felt the grave was at our feet,
And felt that we should no more meet
Upon its hither side no more?
Was it a chance that made her turn
Once toward the window passing by,
One moment with a shrinking eye
Wherein her spirit seemed to yearn: —
Or did her soul then first discern
How long and rough the pathway is
That leads us home from vanities,
And how it will be good to die?
There was a hill she had to pass;
And while I watched her up the hill
She stooped one moment hurrying still,
But left a rose upon the grass:
Was it mere idleness: — or was
Herself with her own self at strife
Till while she chose the better life
She felt this life has power to kill?
Perhaps she did it carelessly,
Perhaps it was an idle thought;
Or else it was the grace unbought,
A pledge to all eternity:
I know not yet how this may be;
But I shall know when face to face
In Paradise we find a place
And love with love that endeth not.
FROM THE ANTIQUE
It’s a weary life, it is; she said: —
Doubly blank in a woman’s lot:
I wish and I wish I were a man;
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 66