CHRISTINA ROSSETTI1830-1894
1830-1894
When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.
When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.
When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
The irresponsive silence of the land,The irresponsive sounding of the sea,Speak both one message of one sense to me:—‘Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof; so standThou too aloof bound with the flawless bandOf inner solitude; we bind not thee;But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?’And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,And sometimes I remember days of oldWhen fellowship seemed not so far to seekAnd all the world and I seemed much less cold,And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold,And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
The irresponsive silence of the land,The irresponsive sounding of the sea,Speak both one message of one sense to me:—‘Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof; so standThou too aloof bound with the flawless bandOf inner solitude; we bind not thee;But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?’And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,And sometimes I remember days of oldWhen fellowship seemed not so far to seekAnd all the world and I seemed much less cold,And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold,And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
The irresponsive silence of the land,The irresponsive sounding of the sea,Speak both one message of one sense to me:—‘Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof; so standThou too aloof bound with the flawless bandOf inner solitude; we bind not thee;But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?’And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,And sometimes I remember days of oldWhen fellowship seemed not so far to seekAnd all the world and I seemed much less cold,And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold,And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me:—
‘Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof; so stand
Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?’
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seemed not so far to seek
And all the world and I seemed much less cold,
And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
Come to me in the silence of the night;Come in the speaking silence of a dream;Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as brightAs sunlight on a stream;Come back in tears,O memory, hope, love of finished years.Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;Where thirsting longing eyesWatch the slow doorThat opening, letting in, lets out no more.Yet come to me in dreams, that I may liveMy very life again though cold in death:Come back to me in dreams, that I may givePulse for pulse, breath for breath:Speak low, lean low,As long ago, my love, how long ago!
Come to me in the silence of the night;Come in the speaking silence of a dream;Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as brightAs sunlight on a stream;Come back in tears,O memory, hope, love of finished years.Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;Where thirsting longing eyesWatch the slow doorThat opening, letting in, lets out no more.Yet come to me in dreams, that I may liveMy very life again though cold in death:Come back to me in dreams, that I may givePulse for pulse, breath for breath:Speak low, lean low,As long ago, my love, how long ago!
Come to me in the silence of the night;Come in the speaking silence of a dream;Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as brightAs sunlight on a stream;Come back in tears,O memory, hope, love of finished years.
Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.
Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;Where thirsting longing eyesWatch the slow doorThat opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may liveMy very life again though cold in death:Come back to me in dreams, that I may givePulse for pulse, breath for breath:Speak low, lean low,As long ago, my love, how long ago!
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago!
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 wayThat foot-track doth not waver on the sand.She stands there like a beacon through 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.
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 wayThat foot-track doth not waver on the sand.She stands there like a beacon through 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.
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 wayThat foot-track doth not waver on the sand.She stands there like a beacon through 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.
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 doth not waver on the sand.
She stands there like a beacon through 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.
Am I a stone and not a sheepThat I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,To number drop by drop Thy Blood’s slow loss,And yet not weep?Not so those women lovedWho with exceeding grief lamented Thee;Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;Not so the thief was moved;Not so the Sun and MoonWhich hid their faces in a starless sky,A horror of great darkness at broad noon—I, only I.Yet give not o’er,But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;Greater than Moses, turn and look once moreAnd smite a rock.
Am I a stone and not a sheepThat I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,To number drop by drop Thy Blood’s slow loss,And yet not weep?Not so those women lovedWho with exceeding grief lamented Thee;Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;Not so the thief was moved;Not so the Sun and MoonWhich hid their faces in a starless sky,A horror of great darkness at broad noon—I, only I.Yet give not o’er,But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;Greater than Moses, turn and look once moreAnd smite a rock.
Am I a stone and not a sheepThat I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,To number drop by drop Thy Blood’s slow loss,And yet not weep?
Am I a stone and not a sheep
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women lovedWho with exceeding grief lamented Thee;Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;Not so the thief was moved;
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and MoonWhich hid their faces in a starless sky,A horror of great darkness at broad noon—I, only I.
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon—
I, only I.
Yet give not o’er,But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;Greater than Moses, turn and look once moreAnd smite a rock.
Yet give not o’er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.
I took my heart in my hand(O my love, O my love),I said: Let me fall or stand,Let me live or die,But this once hear me speak—(O my love, O my love)—Yet a woman’s words are weak;You should speak, not I.You took my heart in your handWith a friendly smile,With a critical eye you scanned,Then set it down,And said: It is still unripe,Better wait awhile;Wait while the skylarks pipe,Till the corn grows brown.As you set it down it broke—Broke, but I did not wince;I smiled at the speech you spoke,At your judgement that I heard:But I have not often smiledSince then, nor questioned since,Nor cared for corn-flowers wild,Nor sung with the singing bird.I take my heart in my hand,O my God, O my God,My broken heart in my hand:Thou hast seen, judge Thou.My hope was written on sand,O my God, O my God;Now let Thy judgement stand—Yea, judge me now.This contemned of a man,This marred one heedless day,This heart take Thou to scanBoth within and without:Refine with fire its gold,Purge Thou its dross away—Yea, hold it in Thy hold,Whence none can pluck it out.I take my heart in my hand—I shall not die, but live—Before Thy face I stand;I, for Thou callest such:All that I have I bring,All that I am I give,Smile Thou and I shall sing,But shall not question much.
I took my heart in my hand(O my love, O my love),I said: Let me fall or stand,Let me live or die,But this once hear me speak—(O my love, O my love)—Yet a woman’s words are weak;You should speak, not I.You took my heart in your handWith a friendly smile,With a critical eye you scanned,Then set it down,And said: It is still unripe,Better wait awhile;Wait while the skylarks pipe,Till the corn grows brown.As you set it down it broke—Broke, but I did not wince;I smiled at the speech you spoke,At your judgement that I heard:But I have not often smiledSince then, nor questioned since,Nor cared for corn-flowers wild,Nor sung with the singing bird.I take my heart in my hand,O my God, O my God,My broken heart in my hand:Thou hast seen, judge Thou.My hope was written on sand,O my God, O my God;Now let Thy judgement stand—Yea, judge me now.This contemned of a man,This marred one heedless day,This heart take Thou to scanBoth within and without:Refine with fire its gold,Purge Thou its dross away—Yea, hold it in Thy hold,Whence none can pluck it out.I take my heart in my hand—I shall not die, but live—Before Thy face I stand;I, for Thou callest such:All that I have I bring,All that I am I give,Smile Thou and I shall sing,But shall not question much.
I took my heart in my hand(O my love, O my love),I said: Let me fall or stand,Let me live or die,But this once hear me speak—(O my love, O my love)—Yet a woman’s words are weak;You should speak, not I.
I took my heart in my hand
(O my love, O my love),
I said: Let me fall or stand,
Let me live or die,
But this once hear me speak—
(O my love, O my love)—
Yet a woman’s words are weak;
You should speak, not I.
You took my heart in your handWith a friendly smile,With a critical eye you scanned,Then set it down,And said: It is still unripe,Better wait awhile;Wait while the skylarks pipe,Till the corn grows brown.
You took my heart in your hand
With a friendly smile,
With a critical eye you scanned,
Then set it down,
And said: It is still unripe,
Better wait awhile;
Wait while the skylarks pipe,
Till the corn grows brown.
As you set it down it broke—Broke, but I did not wince;I smiled at the speech you spoke,At your judgement that I heard:But I have not often smiledSince then, nor questioned since,Nor cared for corn-flowers wild,Nor sung with the singing bird.
As you set it down it broke—
Broke, but I did not wince;
I smiled at the speech you spoke,
At your judgement that I heard:
But I have not often smiled
Since then, nor questioned since,
Nor cared for corn-flowers wild,
Nor sung with the singing bird.
I take my heart in my hand,O my God, O my God,My broken heart in my hand:Thou hast seen, judge Thou.My hope was written on sand,O my God, O my God;Now let Thy judgement stand—Yea, judge me now.
I take my heart in my hand,
O my God, O my God,
My broken heart in my hand:
Thou hast seen, judge Thou.
My hope was written on sand,
O my God, O my God;
Now let Thy judgement stand—
Yea, judge me now.
This contemned of a man,This marred one heedless day,This heart take Thou to scanBoth within and without:Refine with fire its gold,Purge Thou its dross away—Yea, hold it in Thy hold,Whence none can pluck it out.
This contemned of a man,
This marred one heedless day,
This heart take Thou to scan
Both within and without:
Refine with fire its gold,
Purge Thou its dross away—
Yea, hold it in Thy hold,
Whence none can pluck it out.
I take my heart in my hand—I shall not die, but live—Before Thy face I stand;I, for Thou callest such:All that I have I bring,All that I am I give,Smile Thou and I shall sing,But shall not question much.
I take my heart in my hand—
I shall not die, but live—
Before Thy face I stand;
I, for Thou callest such:
All that I have I bring,
All that I am I give,
Smile Thou and I shall sing,
But shall not question much.
O earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;Lie close around her; leave no room for mirthWith its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.She hath no questions, she hath no replies,Hushed in and curtained with a blessèd dearthOf all that irked her from the hour of birth;With stillness that is almost Paradise.Darkness more clear than noon-day holdeth her,Silence more musical than any song;Even her very heart has ceased to stir:Until the morning of EternityHer rest shall not begin nor end, but be;And when she wakes she will not think it long.
O earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;Lie close around her; leave no room for mirthWith its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.She hath no questions, she hath no replies,Hushed in and curtained with a blessèd dearthOf all that irked her from the hour of birth;With stillness that is almost Paradise.Darkness more clear than noon-day holdeth her,Silence more musical than any song;Even her very heart has ceased to stir:Until the morning of EternityHer rest shall not begin nor end, but be;And when she wakes she will not think it long.
O earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;Lie close around her; leave no room for mirthWith its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.She hath no questions, she hath no replies,Hushed in and curtained with a blessèd dearthOf all that irked her from the hour of birth;With stillness that is almost Paradise.Darkness more clear than noon-day holdeth her,Silence more musical than any song;Even her very heart has ceased to stir:Until the morning of EternityHer rest shall not begin nor end, but be;And when she wakes she will not think it long.
O earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;
Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;
Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.
She hath no questions, she hath no replies,
Hushed in and curtained with a blessèd dearth
Of all that irked her from the hour of birth;
With stillness that is almost Paradise.
Darkness more clear than noon-day holdeth her,
Silence more musical than any song;
Even her very heart has ceased to stir:
Until the morning of Eternity
Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be;
And when she wakes she will not think it long.
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend.But is there for the night a resting-place?A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.May not the darkness hide it from my face?You cannot miss that inn.Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?Those who have gone before.Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?They will not keep you standing at that door.Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?Of labour you shall find the sum.Will there be beds for me and all who seek?Yea, beds for all who come.
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend.But is there for the night a resting-place?A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.May not the darkness hide it from my face?You cannot miss that inn.Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?Those who have gone before.Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?They will not keep you standing at that door.Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?Of labour you shall find the sum.Will there be beds for me and all who seek?Yea, beds for all who come.
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend.
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.May not the darkness hide it from my face?You cannot miss that inn.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?Those who have gone before.Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?Of labour you shall find the sum.Will there be beds for me and all who seek?Yea, beds for all who come.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
Remember me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you planned:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.
Remember me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you planned:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.
Remember me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you planned:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
Too late for love, too late for joy,Too late, too late!You loitered on the road too long,You trifled at the gate:The enchanted dove upon her branchDied without a mate;The enchanted princess in her towerSlept, died, behind the grate;Her heart was starving all this whileYou made it wait.Ten years ago, five years ago,One year ago,Even then you had arrived in time,Though somewhat slow;Then you had known her living faceWhich now you cannot know:The frozen fountain would have leaped,The buds gone on to blow,The warm south wind would have awakedTo melt the snow.Is she fair now as she lies?Once she was fair;Meet queen for any kingly king,With gold-dust on her hair.Now these are poppies in her locks,White poppies she must wear;Must wear a veil to shroud her faceAnd the want graven there:Or is the hunger fed at length,Cast off the care?We never saw her with a smileOr with a frown;Her bed seemed never soft to her,Though tossed of down;She little heeded what she wore,Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;We think her white brows often achedBeneath her crown,Till silvery hairs showed in her locksThat used to be so brown.We never heard her speak in haste:Her tones were sweet,And modulated just so muchAs it was meet:Her heart sat silent through the noiseAnd concourse of the street.There was no hurry in her hands,No hurry in her feet;There was no bliss drew nigh to her,That she might run to greet.You should have wept her yesterday,Wasting upon her bed:But wherefore should you weep to-dayThat she is dead?Lo, we who love weep not to-day,But crown her royal head.Let be these poppies that we strew,Your roses are too red:Let be these poppies, not for youCut down and spread.
Too late for love, too late for joy,Too late, too late!You loitered on the road too long,You trifled at the gate:The enchanted dove upon her branchDied without a mate;The enchanted princess in her towerSlept, died, behind the grate;Her heart was starving all this whileYou made it wait.Ten years ago, five years ago,One year ago,Even then you had arrived in time,Though somewhat slow;Then you had known her living faceWhich now you cannot know:The frozen fountain would have leaped,The buds gone on to blow,The warm south wind would have awakedTo melt the snow.Is she fair now as she lies?Once she was fair;Meet queen for any kingly king,With gold-dust on her hair.Now these are poppies in her locks,White poppies she must wear;Must wear a veil to shroud her faceAnd the want graven there:Or is the hunger fed at length,Cast off the care?We never saw her with a smileOr with a frown;Her bed seemed never soft to her,Though tossed of down;She little heeded what she wore,Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;We think her white brows often achedBeneath her crown,Till silvery hairs showed in her locksThat used to be so brown.We never heard her speak in haste:Her tones were sweet,And modulated just so muchAs it was meet:Her heart sat silent through the noiseAnd concourse of the street.There was no hurry in her hands,No hurry in her feet;There was no bliss drew nigh to her,That she might run to greet.You should have wept her yesterday,Wasting upon her bed:But wherefore should you weep to-dayThat she is dead?Lo, we who love weep not to-day,But crown her royal head.Let be these poppies that we strew,Your roses are too red:Let be these poppies, not for youCut down and spread.
Too late for love, too late for joy,Too late, too late!You loitered on the road too long,You trifled at the gate:The enchanted dove upon her branchDied without a mate;The enchanted princess in her towerSlept, died, behind the grate;Her heart was starving all this whileYou made it wait.
Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.
Ten years ago, five years ago,One year ago,Even then you had arrived in time,Though somewhat slow;Then you had known her living faceWhich now you cannot know:The frozen fountain would have leaped,The buds gone on to blow,The warm south wind would have awakedTo melt the snow.
Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.
Is she fair now as she lies?Once she was fair;Meet queen for any kingly king,With gold-dust on her hair.Now these are poppies in her locks,White poppies she must wear;Must wear a veil to shroud her faceAnd the want graven there:Or is the hunger fed at length,Cast off the care?
Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?
We never saw her with a smileOr with a frown;Her bed seemed never soft to her,Though tossed of down;She little heeded what she wore,Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;We think her white brows often achedBeneath her crown,Till silvery hairs showed in her locksThat used to be so brown.
We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
That used to be so brown.
We never heard her speak in haste:Her tones were sweet,And modulated just so muchAs it was meet:Her heart sat silent through the noiseAnd concourse of the street.There was no hurry in her hands,No hurry in her feet;There was no bliss drew nigh to her,That she might run to greet.
We never heard her speak in haste:
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.
You should have wept her yesterday,Wasting upon her bed:But wherefore should you weep to-dayThat she is dead?Lo, we who love weep not to-day,But crown her royal head.Let be these poppies that we strew,Your roses are too red:Let be these poppies, not for youCut down and spread.
You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread.
My heart is like a singing birdWhose nest is in a watered shoot;My heart is like an appletreeWhose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;My heart is like a rainbow shellThat paddles in a halcyon sea;My heart is gladder than all theseBecause my love is come to me.Raise me a dais of silk and down;Hang it with vair and purple dyes;Carve it in doves, and pomegranates,And peacocks with a hundred eyes;Work it in gold and silver grapes,In leaves, and silver fleurs-de-lys;Because the birthday of my lifeIs come, my love is come to me.
My heart is like a singing birdWhose nest is in a watered shoot;My heart is like an appletreeWhose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;My heart is like a rainbow shellThat paddles in a halcyon sea;My heart is gladder than all theseBecause my love is come to me.Raise me a dais of silk and down;Hang it with vair and purple dyes;Carve it in doves, and pomegranates,And peacocks with a hundred eyes;Work it in gold and silver grapes,In leaves, and silver fleurs-de-lys;Because the birthday of my lifeIs come, my love is come to me.
My heart is like a singing birdWhose nest is in a watered shoot;My heart is like an appletreeWhose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;My heart is like a rainbow shellThat paddles in a halcyon sea;My heart is gladder than all theseBecause my love is come to me.
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart is like an appletree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down;Hang it with vair and purple dyes;Carve it in doves, and pomegranates,And peacocks with a hundred eyes;Work it in gold and silver grapes,In leaves, and silver fleurs-de-lys;Because the birthday of my lifeIs come, my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves, and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves, and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.
‘Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing,On the west wind blowing along this valley track?’‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.’So they two went together in glowing August weather,The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right;And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float onThe air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.‘Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven,Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?’‘Oh, that’s a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous,An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt.’‘Oh, what is that glides quickly where the velvet flowers grow thickly,Their scent comes rich and sickly?’ ‘A scaled and hooded worm.’‘Oh, what’s that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?’‘Oh, that’s a thin dead body which waits the eternal term.’‘Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest:This way whereof thou weetest, I fear is hell’s own track.’‘Nay, too steep for hill-mounting; nay, too late for cost-counting:This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back.’
‘Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing,On the west wind blowing along this valley track?’‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.’So they two went together in glowing August weather,The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right;And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float onThe air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.‘Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven,Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?’‘Oh, that’s a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous,An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt.’‘Oh, what is that glides quickly where the velvet flowers grow thickly,Their scent comes rich and sickly?’ ‘A scaled and hooded worm.’‘Oh, what’s that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?’‘Oh, that’s a thin dead body which waits the eternal term.’‘Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest:This way whereof thou weetest, I fear is hell’s own track.’‘Nay, too steep for hill-mounting; nay, too late for cost-counting:This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back.’
‘Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing,On the west wind blowing along this valley track?’‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.’
‘Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing,
On the west wind blowing along this valley track?’
‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,
We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.’
So they two went together in glowing August weather,The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right;And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float onThe air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.
So they two went together in glowing August weather,
The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right;
And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float on
The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.
‘Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven,Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?’‘Oh, that’s a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous,An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt.’
‘Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven,
Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?’
‘Oh, that’s a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous,
An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt.’
‘Oh, what is that glides quickly where the velvet flowers grow thickly,Their scent comes rich and sickly?’ ‘A scaled and hooded worm.’‘Oh, what’s that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?’‘Oh, that’s a thin dead body which waits the eternal term.’
‘Oh, what is that glides quickly where the velvet flowers grow thickly,
Their scent comes rich and sickly?’ ‘A scaled and hooded worm.’
‘Oh, what’s that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?’
‘Oh, that’s a thin dead body which waits the eternal term.’
‘Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest:This way whereof thou weetest, I fear is hell’s own track.’‘Nay, too steep for hill-mounting; nay, too late for cost-counting:This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back.’
‘Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest:
This way whereof thou weetest, I fear is hell’s own track.’
‘Nay, too steep for hill-mounting; nay, too late for cost-counting:
This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back.’
Ten years ago it seemed impossibleThat she should ever grow so calm as this,With self-remembrance in her warmest kissAnd dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell,Silent with long-unbroken silences,Centred in self yet not unpleased to please,Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.Mindful of drudging daily common things,Patient at pastime, patient at her work,Wearing perhaps but strenuous certainly.Sometimes I fancy we may one day seeHer head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk,And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.
Ten years ago it seemed impossibleThat she should ever grow so calm as this,With self-remembrance in her warmest kissAnd dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell,Silent with long-unbroken silences,Centred in self yet not unpleased to please,Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.Mindful of drudging daily common things,Patient at pastime, patient at her work,Wearing perhaps but strenuous certainly.Sometimes I fancy we may one day seeHer head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk,And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.
Ten years ago it seemed impossibleThat she should ever grow so calm as this,With self-remembrance in her warmest kissAnd dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell,Silent with long-unbroken silences,Centred in self yet not unpleased to please,Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.Mindful of drudging daily common things,Patient at pastime, patient at her work,Wearing perhaps but strenuous certainly.Sometimes I fancy we may one day seeHer head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk,And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.
Ten years ago it seemed impossible
That she should ever grow so calm as this,
With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss
And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.
Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell,
Silent with long-unbroken silences,
Centred in self yet not unpleased to please,
Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.
Mindful of drudging daily common things,
Patient at pastime, patient at her work,
Wearing perhaps but strenuous certainly.
Sometimes I fancy we may one day see
Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk,
And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.
What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do;Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.What would I give for words, if only words would come;But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb:Oh, merry friends, go your way, I have never a word to say.What would I give for tears, not smiles but scalding tears,To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years,To wash the stain ingrain, and to make me clean again.
What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do;Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.What would I give for words, if only words would come;But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb:Oh, merry friends, go your way, I have never a word to say.What would I give for tears, not smiles but scalding tears,To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years,To wash the stain ingrain, and to make me clean again.
What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do;Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.
What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,
Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do;
Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.
What would I give for words, if only words would come;But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb:Oh, merry friends, go your way, I have never a word to say.
What would I give for words, if only words would come;
But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb:
Oh, merry friends, go your way, I have never a word to say.
What would I give for tears, not smiles but scalding tears,To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years,To wash the stain ingrain, and to make me clean again.
What would I give for tears, not smiles but scalding tears,
To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years,
To wash the stain ingrain, and to make me clean again.