Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti

by Christina Rossetti

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 —r />
  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