Grew with my growth and strengthened with my strength,
But whose green lifetime shows a longer length:
When I shall not sit here
It still will bud in spring, and shed rare leaves
In autumn, and in summer heat give shade,
And warmth in winter; when my bed is made
In shade the cypress weaves.
MARGERY
What shall we do with Margery?
She lies and cries upon her bed,
All lily-pale from foot to head,
Her heart is sore as sore can be;
Poor guileless shamefaced Margery.
A foolish girl, to love a man
And let him know she loved him so!
She should have tried a different plan;
Have loved, but not have let him know:
Then he perhaps had loved her so.
What can we do with Margery
Who has no relish for her food?
We’d take her with us to the sea —
Across the sea — but where’s the good?
She’d fret alike on land and sea.
Yes, what the neighbours say is true:
Girls should not make themselves so cheap.
But now it’s done what can we do?
I hear her moaning in her sleep,
Moaning and sobbing in her sleep.
I think — and I’m of flesh and blood —
Were I that man for whom she cares
I would not cost her tears and prayers
To leave her just alone like mud,
Fretting her simple heart with cares.
A year ago she was a child,
Now she’s a woman in her grief;
The year’s now at the falling leaf,
At budding of the leaves she smiled;
Poor foolish harmless foolish child.
It was her own fault? so it was.
If every own fault found us out
Dogged us and snared us round about,
What comfort should we take because
Not half our due we thus wrung out?
At any rate the question stands:
What now to do with Margery,
A weak poor creature on our hands?
Something we must do: I’ll not see
Her blossom fade, sweet Margery.
Perhaps a change may after all
Prove best for her: to leave behind
Those home-sights seen time out of mind;
To get beyond the narrow wall
Of home, and learn home is not all.
Perhaps this way she may forget,
Not all at once, but in a while;
May come to wonder how she set
Her heart on this slight thing, and smile
At her own folly, in a while.
Yet this I say and I maintain:
Were I the man she’s fretting for
I should my very self abhor
If I could leave her to her pain,
Uncomforted to tears and pain.
IN PATIENCE
I will not faint, but trust in God
Who this my lot hath given;
He leads me by the thorny road
Which is the road to heaven.
Tho’ sad my day that lasts so long,
At evening I shall have a song;
Tho’ dim my day until the night,
At evening time there shall be light.
My life is but a working day
Whose tasks are set aright:
A while to work, a while to pray,
And then a quiet night.
And then, please God, a quiet night
Where Saints and Angels walk in white:
One dreamless sleep from work and sorrow,
But re-awakening on the morrow.
SUNSHINE
“There’s little sunshine in my heart
Slack to spring, lead to sink;
There’s little sunshine in the world
I think.” —
“There’s glow of sunshine in my heart
(Cool wind, cool the glow);
There’s flood of sunshine in the world
I know.” —
Now if of these one spoke the truth,
One spoke more or less:
But which was which I will not tell; —
You, guess.
MEETING
If we shall live, we live;
If we shall die, we die;
If we live, we shall meet again;
But tonight, good bye.
One word, let but one be heard —
What, not one word?
If we sleep, we shall wake again
And see tomorrow’s light;
If we wake, we shall meet again;
But tonight, good night.
Good night, my lost and found —
Still not a sound?
If we live, we must part;
If we die, we part in pain;
If we die, we shall part
Only to meet again.
By those tears on either cheek,
Tomorrow you will speak.
To meet, worth living for;
Worth dying for, to meet;
To meet, worth parting for;
Bitter forgot in sweet.
To meet, worth parting before
Never to part more.
NONE WITH HIM
My God, to live: how didst Thou bear to live
Preaching and teaching, toiling to and fro;
Few men accepting what Thou hadst to give,
Few men prepared to know
Thy Face, to see the truth Thou camest to show?
My God, to die: how didst Thou bear to die
That long slow death in weariness of pain;
A curse and an astonishment, passed by,
Pointed at, mocked again,
By men for whom Thy Blood was shed in vain?
Whilst I do hardly bear my easy life,
And hardly face my easy-coming death:
I turn to flee before the tug of strife;
And shrink with troubled breath
From sleep, that is not death Thy Spirit saith.
UNDER WILLOWS
Under willows among the graves
One was walking, ah welladay!
Where each willow her green boughs waves
Come April prime, come May.
Under willows among the graves
She met her lost love, ah welladay!
Where in Autumn each wild wind raves
And whirls sere leaves away.
He looked at her with a smile,
She looked at him with a sigh,
Both paused to look awhile;
Then he passed by,
Passed by and whistled a tune;
She stood silent and still:
It was the sunniest day in June,
Yet one felt a chill.
Under willows among the graves
I know a certain black black pool
Scarce wrinkled when Autumn raves;
Under the turf is cool;
Under the water it must be cold;
Winter comes cold when Summer’s past;
Though she live to be old, so old,
She shall die at last.
A SKETCH
The blindest buzzard that I know
Does not wear wings to spread and stir,
Nor does my special mole wear fur
And grub among the roots below;
He sports a tail indeed, but then
It’s to a coat; he’s man with men;
His quill is cut to a pen.
In other points our friend’s a mole,
A buzzard, beyond scope of speech:
He sees not what’s within his reach,
Misreads the part, ignores the whole.
Misreads the part so reads in vain,
Ignores the whole tho’ patent plain,
Misreads both parts again.
My blindest buzzard that I know,
<
br /> My special mole, when will you see?
Oh no, you must not look at me,
There’s nothing hid for me to show.
I might show facts as plain as day;
But since your eyes are blind, you’d say:
Where? What? and turn away.
IF I HAD WORDS
If I had words, if I had words
At least to vent my misery: —
But muter than the speechless herds
I have no voice wherewith to cry.
I have no strength to life my hands,
I have no heart to lift mine eye,
My soul is bound with brazen bands,
My soul is crushed and like to die.
My thoughts that wander here and there,
That wander wander listlessly,
Bring nothing back to cheer my care,
Nothing that I may live thereby.
My heart is broken in my breast,
My breath is but a broken sigh —
Oh if there be a land of rest
It is far off, it is not nigh.
If I had wings as hath a dove,
If I had wings that I might fly,
I yet would seek the land of love
Where fountains run which run not dry;
Tho’ there be none that road to tell,
And long that road is verily:
Then if I lived I should do well,
And if I died I should but die.
If I had wings as hath a dove
I would not sift the what and why,
I would make haste to find out love,
If not to find at least to try.
I would make haste to love, my rest;
To love, my truth that doth not lie:
Then if I lived it might be best,
Or if I died I could but die.
WHAT TO DO?
Oh my love and my own own deary!
What shall I do? my love is weary.
Sleep, O friend, on soft downy pillow,
Pass, O friend, as wind or as billow,
And I’ll wear the willow.
No stone at his head be set,
A swelling turf be his coverlet
Bound round with a graveyard wattle;
Hedged round from the trampling cattle
And the children’s prattle.
I myself, instead of a stone,
Will sit by him to dwindle and moan;
Sit and weep with a bitter weeping,
Sit and weep where my love lies sleeping
While my life goes creeping.
YOUNG DEATH
Lying adying —
Such sweet things untasted,
Such rare beauties wasted:
Her hair a hidden treasure,
Her voice a lost pleasure;
Her soul made void of passion;
Her body going to nothing
Though long it took to fashion,
Soon to be a loathing:
Her road hath no turning,
Her light is burning burning
With last feeble flashes;
Dying from the birth:
Dust to dust, earth to earth,
Ashes to ashes.
Lying adying —
Have done with vain sighing:
Life not lost but treasured,
God Almighty pleasured,
God’s daughter fetched and carried,
Christ’s bride betrothed and married.
Lo, in the Room, the Upper,
She shall sit down to supper,
New bathed from head to feet
And on Christ gazing;
Her mouth kept clean and sweet
Shall laugh and sing, God praising:
Then shall be no more weeping,
Or fear, or sorrow,
Or waking more, or sleeping,
Or night, or morrow,
Or cadence in the song
Of songs, or thirst, or hunger;
The strong shall rise more strong
And the young younger.
Our tender little dove
Meek-eyed and simple,
Our love goes home to Love;
There shall she walk in white
Where God shall be the Light
And God the Temple.
IN A CERTAIN PLACE
I found Love in a certain place
Asleep and cold — or cold and dead? —
All ivory-white upon his bed
All ivory-white his face.
His hands were folded
On his quiet breast,
To his figure laid at rest
Chilly bed was moulded.
His hair hung lax about his brow,
I had not seen his face before;
Or if I saw it once, it wore
Another aspect now.
No trace of last night’s sorrow,
No shadow of tomorrow;
All at peace (thus all sorrows cease),
All at peace.
I wondered: Were his eyes
Soft or falcon-clear?
I wondered: As he lies
Does he feel me near?
In silence my heart spoke
And wondered: If he woke
And found me sitting nigh him
And felt me sitting by him,
If life flushed to his cheek,
He living man with men,
Then if I heard him speak
Oh should I know him then?
CANNOT SWEETEN
If that’s water you wash your hands in
Why is it black as ink is black? —
Because my hands are foul with my folly:
Oh the lost time that comes not back! —
If that’s water you bathe your feet in
Why is it red as wine is red? —
Because my feet sought blood in their goings;
Red red is the track they tread. —
Slew you mother or slew you father
That your foulness passeth not by? —
Not father and oh not mother:
I slew my love with an evil eye. —
Slew you sister or slew you brother
That in peace you have not a part? —
Not brother and oh not sister:
I slew my love with a hardened heart.
He loved me because he loved me,
Not for grace or beauty I had;
He loved me because he loved me;
For his loving me I was glad.
Yet I loved him not for his loving
While I played with his love and truth,
Not loving him for his loving,
Wasting his joy, wasting his youth.
I ate his life as a banquet,
I drank his life as new wine,
I fattened upon his leanness,
Mine to flourish and his to pine.
So his life fled as running water,
So it perished as water spilt:
If black my hands and my feet as scarlet,
Blacker redder my heart of guilt.
Cold as a stone, as hard, as heavy;
All my sighs ease it no whit,
All my tears make it no cleaner
Dropping dropping dropping on it.
OF MY LIFE
I weary of my life
Thro’ the long sultry day,
While happy creatures play
Their harmless lives away: —
What is my life?
I weary of my life
Thro’ the slow tedious night,
While earth and heaven’s delight
The moon walks forth in white: —
What is my life?
If I might I would die;
My soul should flee away
To day that is not day
Where sweet souls sing and say. —
If I might die!
If I might I would die;
My body out of sight,
All night that is not night
My soul should walk in white —
If I might die!
YES, I TOO COULD FACE DEATH AND NEVER SHRINK
Yes, I too could face death and never shrink:
But it is harder to bear hated life;
To strive with hands and knees weary of strife;
To drag the heavy chain whose every link
Galls to the bone; to stand upon the brink
Of the deep grave, nor drowse, though it be rife
With sleep; to hold with steady hand the knife
Nor strike home: this is courage as I think.
Surely to suffer is more than to do:
To do is quickly done; to suffer is
Longer and fuller of heart-sicknesses:
Each day’s experience testifies of this:
Good deeds are many, but good lives are few;
Thousands taste the full cup; who drains the lees? —
WOULD THAT I WERE A TURNIP WHITE
Would that I were a turnip white,
Or raven black,
Or miserable hack
Dragging a cab from left to right;
Or would I were the showman of a sight,
Or weary donkey with a laden back,
Or racer in a sack,
Or freezing traveller on an Alpine height;
Or would I were straw catching as I drown,
(A wretched landsman I who cannot swim,)
Or watching a lone vessel sink,
Rather than writing: I would change my pink
Gauze for a hideous yellow satin gown
With deep-cut scolloped edges and a rim.
I FANCY THE GOOD FAIRIES DRESSED IN WHITE
I fancy the good fairies dressed in white,
Glancing like moon-beams through the shadows black;
Without much work to do for king or hack.
Training perhaps some twisted branch aright;
Or sweeping faded Autumn leaves from sight
To foster embryo life; or binding back
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 72