Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti

by Christina Rossetti

  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;