Christina Georgina Rossetti

There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams; What seems is not always as it seems. I looked out of my window in the sweet new morning,

I have no wit, no words, no tears; My heart within me like a stone Is numbed too much for hopes or fears.

It's a year almost that I have not seen her: Oh, last summer green things were greener, Brambles fewer, the blue sky bluer.

'Croak, croak, croak,' Thus the Raven spoke, Perched on his crooked tree

My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree

Through the vales to my love! To the happy small nest of home Green from basement to roof;

I will accept thy will to do and be, Thy hatred and intolerance of sin, Thy will at least to love, that burns within

"Love brought Me down; and cannot love make thee Carol for joy to Me? Hear cheerful robin carol from his tree,

What can lambkins do All the keen night through? Nestle by their woolly mother

In the bleak mid-winter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron,

A fool I was to sleep at noon, And wake when night is chilly Beneath the comfortless cold moon;

Why were you born when the snow was falling? You should have come to the cuckoo's calling, Or when grapes are green in the cluster,

Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you) We stood together in an open field; Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,

The year stood at its equinox And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,

The soonest mended, nothing said; And help may rise from east or west; But my two hands are lumps of lead,

"And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest." The earth was green, the sky was blue: I saw and heard one sunny morn

Woman was made for man's delight, - Charm, O woman! Be not afraid! His shadow by day, his moon by night,

A night was near, a day was near; Between a day and night I heard sweet voices calling clear,

Never on this side of the grave again, On this side of the river, On this side of the garner of the grain,

Inner not outer, without gnash of teeth Or weeping, save quiet sobs of some who pray And feel the Everlasting Arms beneath, -

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome Has many sonnets: so here now shall be One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me

I looked for that which is not, nor can be, And hope deferred made my heart sick in truth: But years must pass before a hope of youth

Strike the bells wantonly, Tinkle tinkle well; Bring me wine, bring me flowers,

I She gave up beauty in her tender youth, Gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways;

Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house, Which he kindled the night I went away? I turned once beneath the cedar boughs,

Jess and Jill are pretty girls, Plump and well to do, In a cloud of windy curls:

At morn I plucked a rose and gave it Thee, A rose of joy and happy love and peace, A rose with scarce a thorn:

I, a princess, king-descended, decked with jewels, gilded, drest, Would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast, For all I shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west.

(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1868.) A smile because the nights are short! And every morning brings such pleasure

While we slumber and sleep, The sun leaps up from the deep, - Daylight born at the leap, -

Live all thy sweet life thro', Sweet Rose, dew-sprent, Drop down thine evening dew

I said of laughter: it is vain. Of mirth I said: what profits it? Therefore I found a book, and writ

Three sang of love together: one with lips Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow, Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;

A robin said: The Spring will never come, And I shall never care to build again. A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome,

On the wind of January Down flits the snow, Travelling from the frozen North

This Advent moon shines cold and clear, These Advent nights are long; Our lamps have burned year after year

Why should I call Thee Lord, Who art my God? Why should I call Thee Friend, Who art my Love? Or King, Who art my very Spouse above?

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,

As eager homebound traveller to the goal, Or steadfast seeker on an unsearched main, Or martyr panting for an aureole,

They are flocking from the East And the West, They are flocking from the North

All. I, All-Creation, sing my song of praise To God Who made me and vouchsafes my days,

It is over. What is over? Nay, now much is over truly! - Harvest days we toiled to sow for;

(The Shilling Magazine, 1865.) 'Oh, where are you going with your love-locks flowing On the west wind blowing along this valley track?'

Life flows down to death; we cannot bind That current that it should not flee: Life flows down to death, as rivers find

I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree And wore them all that evening in my hair: Then in due season when I went to see

Spring bursts to-day, For Christ is risen and all the earth's at play. Flash forth, thou Sun,

Love, strong as Death, is dead. Come, let us make his bed Among the dying flowers:

In my Autumn garden I was fain To mourn among my scattered roses; Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses

..."Una selva oscura." - Dante. Awake or sleeping (for I know not which) I was or was not mazed within a wood

If I might see another Spring I'd not plant summer flowers and wait: I'd have my crocuses at once,

When I was dead, my spirit turned To seek the much-frequented house: I passed the door, and saw my friends

Many have sung of love a root of bane: While to my mind a root of balm it is, For love at length breeds love; sufficient bliss

I dwell alone - I dwell alone, alone, Whilst full my river flows down to the sea, Gilded with flashing boats

(Macmillan's Magazine, November 1868.) Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring: Of if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves,

While roses are so red, While lilies are so white, Shall a woman exalt her face

While roses are so red, While lilies are so white, Shall a woman exalt her face

(Lyra Messianica, 1864.) Before the paling of the stars, Before the winter morn,

1. Man rising to the doom that shall not err, - Which hath most dread: the arouse of all or each;

Shall Christ hang on the Cross, and we not look? Heaven, earth, and hell stood gazing at the first, While Christ for long-cursed man was counted cursed;

A lowly hill which overlooks a flat, Half sea, half country side; A flat-shored sea of low-voiced creeping tide

Did any bird come flying After Adam and Eve, When the door was shut against them

The sunrise wakes the lark to sing, The moonrise wakes the nightingale. Come darkness, moonrise, every thing

Summer is gone with all its roses, Its sun and perfumes and sweet flowers, Its warm air and refreshing showers:

"If you'll busk you as a bride And make ready, It's I will wed you with a ring,

Oh fair Milly Brandon, a young maid, a fair maid! All her curls are yellow and her eyes are blue, And her cheeks were rosy red till a secret care made

A dancing Bear grotesque and funny Earned for his master heaps of money, Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,

A million buds are born that never blow, That sweet with promise lift a pretty head To blush and wither on a barren bed

Why does the sea moan evermore? Shut out from heaven it makes its moan. It frets against the boundary shore;

B.C. 570 (Macmillan's Magazine, October 1866.) Here where I dwell I waste to skin and bone;

I wish you were a pleasant wren, And I your small accepted mate; How we'd look down on toilsome men!

'Oh happy happy land! Angels like rushes stand About the wells of light.' -

1. Whoso hears a chiming for Christmas at the nighest, Hears a sound like Angels chanting in their glee,

(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1864.) Oh, for the time gone by, when thought of Christ Made His Yoke easy and His Burden light;

(Lyra Eucharistica, 1863.) I am pale with sick desire, For my heart is far away

As rivers seek the sea, Much more deep than they, So my soul seeks thee

(Macmillan's Magazine, Jan. 1866.) Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief: -

Flowers preach to us if we will hear: - The rose saith in the dewy morn: I am most fair;

I was a cottage maiden Hardened by sun and air, Contented with my cottage mates,

A dream that waketh, Bubble that breaketh, Song whose burden sigheth,

Oh why is heaven built so far, Oh why is earth set so remote? I cannot reach the nearest star

Ah! changed and cold, how changed and very cold, With stiffened smiling lips and cold calm eyes: Changed, yet the same; much knowing, little wise;

(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1868.) Hope new born one pleasant morn Died at even;

(Athenaeum, October 14, 1848) Chide not; let me breathe a little, For I shall not mourn him long;

The Spring spreads one green lap of flowers Which Autumn buries at the fall, No chilling showers of Autumn hours

My sun has set, I dwell In darkness as a dead man out of sight; And none remains, not one, that I should tell

I love and love not: Lord, it breaks my heart To love and not to love. Thou veiled within Thy glory, gone apart

Where sunless rivers weep Their waves into the deep, She sleeps a charm'd sleep:

Young Love lies sleeping In May-time of the year, Among the lilies,

(Lyra Messianica, 1864.) There is nothing more that they can do For all their rage and boast;

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

She came among us from the South And made the North her home awhile Our dimness brightened in her smile,

'While I sit at the door Sick to gaze within Mine eye weepeth sore

Many a flower hath perfume for its dower, And many a bird a song, And harmless lambs milkwhite beside their dams

A blue-eyed phantom far before Is laughing, leaping toward the sun: Like lead I chase it evermore,

The splendor of the kindling day, The splendor of the setting sun, These move my soul to wend its way,

Wearied of sinning, wearied of repentance, Wearied of self, I turn, my God, to Thee; To Thee, my Judge, on Whose all-righteous sentence

Such a hubbub in the nests, Such a bustle and squeak! Nestlings, guiltless of a feather,

The first was like a dream through summer heat, The second like a tedious numbing swoon, While the half-frozen pulses lagged to beat

Go from me, summer friends, and tarry not: I am no summer friend, but wintry cold, A silly sheep benighted from the fold,

Morning and evening Maids heard the goblins cry: 'Come buy our orchard fruits,

The buttercup is like a golden cup, The marigold is like a golden frill, The daisy with a golden eye looks up,

There is silence that saith, "Ah me!" There is silence that nothing saith; One the silence of life forlorn,

O happy rose-bud blooming Upon thy parent tree, Nay, thou art too presuming;

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,

I loved my love from green of Spring Until sere Autumn's fall; But now that leaves are withering

"Should one of us remember, And one of us forget, I wish I knew what each will do -

(Athenaeum, October 21, 1848) I did not chide him, though I knew That he was false to me.

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1866.) Because one loves you, Helen Grey, Is that a reason you should pout,

There's no replying To the Wind's sighing, Telling, foretelling,

(Lyra Messianica, 1864.) O Christ, the Vine with living Fruit, The twelvefold-fruited Tree of Life,

Weary and weak, - accept my weariness; Weary and weak and downcast in my soul, With hope growing less and less,

I am pale with sick desire, For my heart is far away From this world's fitful fire

(The Argosy, March 1866.) If he would come to-day, to-day, to-day, O, what a day to-day would be!

If I might only love my God and die! But now He bids me love Him and live on, Now when the bloom of all my life is gone,

- Proverbs xxiv. 11, 12. 1. I have done I know not what, - what have I done?

June 8, 1857 A hundred, a thousand to one; even so; Not a hope in the world remained:

I sat beneath a willow tree, Where water falls and calls; While fancies upon fancies solaced me,

Dear Lord, let me recount to Thee Some of the great things thou hast done For me, even me

To come back from the sweet South, to the North Where I was born, bred, look to die; Come back to do my day's work in its day,

'Jessie, Jessie Cameron, Hear me but this once,' quoth he. 'Good luck go with you, neighbor's son,

(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1864.) Jesus, do I love Thee? Thou art far above me,

FOUNDED ON AN ANECDOTE OF THE FIRST FRENCH REVOLUTION. Johnny had a golden head Like a golden mop in blow,

'Whose heart was breaking for a little love.' Downstairs I laugh, I sport and jest with all; But in my solitary room above

You must not call me Maggie, you must not call me Dear, For I'm Lady of the Manor now stately to see; And if there comes a babe, as there may some happy year,

(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1865.) Where were you last night? I watched at the gate; I went down early, I stayed down late.

1. Before the mountains were brought forth, before Earth and the world were made, then God was God:

Life is not sweet. One day it will be sweet To shut our eyes and die: Nor feel the wild flowers blow, nor birds dart by

'Oh, sad thy lot before I came, But sadder when I go; My presence but a flash of flame,

Thou who didst hang upon a barren tree, My God, for me; Though I till now be barren, now at length

I had a love in soft south land, Beloved through April far in May; He waited on my lightest breath,

"I have not sought Thee, I have not found Thee, I have not thirsted for Thee: And now cold billows of death surround me,

Love that is dead and buried, yesterday Out of his grave rose up before my face, No recognition in his look, no trace

Beautiful, tender, wasting away for sorrow; Thus to-day; and how shall it be with thee to-morrow? Beautiful, tender - what else?

You must not call me Maggie, you must not call me Dear, For I'm Lady of the Manor now stately to see; And if there comes a babe, as there may some happy year,

Maiden May sat in her bower, In her blush rose bower in flower, Sweet of scent;

Long ago and long ago, And long ago still, There dwelt three merry maidens

Not for me marring or making, Not for me giving or taking; I love my Love and he loves not me,

We meet in joy, though we part in sorrow; We part to-night, but we meet to-morrow. Be it flood or blood the path that's trod,

A SONG FOR ALL MARIES. Our Master lies asleep and is at rest; His Heart has ceased to bleed, His Eye to weep.

Out of the church she followed them With a lofty step and mien: His bride was like a village maid,

I cannot tell you how it was; But this I know: it came to pass Upon a bright and breezy day

Poor the pleasure Doled out by measure, Sweet though it be, while brief

I I nursed it in my bosom while it lived, I hid it in my heart when it was dead;

The hope I dreamed of was a dream, Was but a dream; and now I wake, Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,

The mystery of Life, the mystery Of Death, I see Darkly as in a glass;

Beatrice, immortalized by "altissimo poeta ... cotanto amante;" Laura, celebrated by a great though an inferior bard, - have alike paid the exceptional penalty of exceptional honor, and have come down to us resplendent with charms, but (at least, to my apprehension) scant of attractiveness. These heroines of world-wide fame were preceded by a bevy of unnamed ladies "donne innominate" sung by a school of less conspicuous poets; and in that land and that period which gave simultaneous birth to Catholics, to Albigenses, and to Troubadours, one can imagine many a lady as sharing her lover's poetic aptitude, while the barrier between them might be one held sacred by both, yet not such as to render mutual love incompatible with mutual honor. Had such a lady spoken for herself, the portrait left us might have appeared more tender, if less dignified, than any drawn even by a devoted friend. Or had the Great Poetess of our own day and nation only been unhappy instead of happy, her circumstances would have invited her to bequeath to us, in lieu of the "Portuguese Sonnets," an inimitable "donna innominata" drawn not from fancy but from feeling, and worthy to occupy a niche beside Beatrice and Laura.

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1868.) Oh what is that country And where can it be,

Hear now a curious dream I dreamed last night Each word whereof is weighed and sifted truth. I stood beside Euphrates while it swelled

(Macmillan's Magazine, Dec. 1864.) Two days ago with dancing glancing hair, With living lips and eyes:

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I: Perhaps some day, who knows? But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows,

I never said I loved you, John: Why will you tease me, day by day, And wax a weariness to think upon

'Now did you mark a falcon, Sister dear, sister dear, Flying toward my window

Lord, I am waiting, weeping, watching for Thee: My youth and hope lie by me buried and dead, My wandering love hath not where to lay its head

1 New Year met me somewhat sad: Old Year leaves me tired,

Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you) We stood together in an open field; Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,

(Margaret.) I said: This is a beautiful fresh rose. I said: I will delight me with its scent,

Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith, All things are vanity. The eye and ear Cannot be filled with what they see and hear.

I will tell you when they met: In the limpid days of Spring; Elder boughs were budding yet,

"Oh tell me once and tell me twice And tell me thrice to make it plain, When we who part this weary day,

Unmindful of the roses, Unmindful of the thorn, A reaper tired reposes

(Lyra Messianica, second edition, 1865.) Once in a dream I saw the flowers That bud and bloom in Paradise;

(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1865.) Golden-winged, silver-winged, Winged with flashing flame,

All things that pass Are woman's looking-glass; They show her how her bloom must fade,

A boat amid the ripples, drifting, rocking, Two idle people, without pause or aim; While in the ominous west there gathers darkness

The flowers that bloom in sun and shade And glitter in the dew, The flowers must fade.

Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand,

(Art and Poetry [The Germ, No. 3], March 1850) She sat alway thro' the long day Spinning the weary thread away;

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth

From depth to height, from height to loftier height, The climber sets his foot and sets his face, Tracks lingering sunbeams to their halting-place,

It's oh in Paradise that I fain would be, Away from earth and weariness and all beside; Earth is too full of loss with its dividing sea,

(Macmillan's Magazine, Dec. 1866.) Oh the cheerful Budding-time! When thorn-hedges turn to green,

Shall I forget on this side of the grave? I promise nothing: you must wait and see Patient and brave.

The door was shut. I looked between Its iron bars; and saw it lie, My garden, mine, beneath the sky,

Who told my mother of my shame, Who told my father of my dear? Oh who but Maude, my sister Maude,

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1864.) Like flowers sequestered from the sun And wind of summer, day by day

Sound the deep waters: - Who shall sound that deep? - Too short the plummet,

(1674.) I have desired, and I have been desired; But now the days are over of desire,

Somewhere or other there must surely be The face not seen, the voice not heard, The heart that not yet - never yet - ah me!

Oh roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy branch for me

Oh what comes over the sea, Shoals and quicksands past; And what comes home to me,

A song in a cornfield Where corn begins to fall, Where reapers are reaping,

Some are laughing, some are weeping; She is sleeping, only sleeping. Round her rest wild flowers are creeping;

Frost-locked all the winter, Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits, What shall make their sap ascend

Gone were but the Winter, Come were but the Spring, I would go to a covert

Winter is cold-hearted Spring is yea and nay, Autumn is a weather-cock

To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose Scentless, colorless, this! Will it ever be thus (who knows?)

The sweetest blossoms die. And so it was that, going day by day Unto the church to praise and pray,

I watched a rosebud very long Brought on by dew and sun and shower, Waiting to see the perfect flower:

"Thou whom I love, for whom I died, Lovest thou Me, My bride?" - Low on my knees I love Thee, Lord,

Lovely Spring, A brief sweet thing, Is swift on the wing;

Underneath the growing grass, Underneath the living flowers, Deeper than the sound of showers:

There's blood between us, love, my love, There's father's blood, there's brother's blood; And blood's a bar I cannot pass:

Is this the Face that thrills with awe Seraphs who veil their face above? Is this the Face without a flaw,

I wonder if the sap is stirring yet, If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate, If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun

'There's a footstep coming: look out and see,' 'The leaves are falling, the wind is calling; No one cometh across the lea.' -

BRIDE O love, love, hold me fast, He draws me away from thee;

Where are the songs I used to know, Where are the notes I used to sing? I have forgotten everything

The upland flocks grew starved and thinned: Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs Whose milkless mothers butted them,

I bore with thee long weary days and nights, Through many pangs of heart, through many tears; I bore with thee, thy hardness, coldness, slights,

Give me the lowest place: not that I dare Ask for that lowest place, but Thou hast died That I might live and share

Like flowers sequestered from the sun And wind of summer, day by day I dwindled paler, whilst my hair

Who calleth? - Thy Father calleth, Run, O Daughter, to wait on Him: He Who chasteneth but for a season

PERSONIFICATIONS. Boys.            Girls. January.                February.

(Lyra Eucharistica, 1863.) Once I thought to sit so high In the Palace of the sky;

Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith, All things are vanity. The eye and ear Cannot be filled with what they see and hear.

'Oh whence do you come, my dear friend, to me, With your golden hair all fallen below your knee, And your face as white as snowdrops on the lea,

Till all sweet gums and juices flow, Till the blossom of blossoms blow, The long hours go and come and go,

How comes it, Flora, that, whenever we Play cards together, you invariably, However the pack parts,

1. The irresponsive silence of the land, The irresponsive sounding of the sea,

THE FLESH 'Sweet, thou art pale.' 'More pale to see,

By day she woos me, soft, exceeding fair: But all night as the moon so changeth she; Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy

Wintry boughs against a wintry sky; Yet the sky is partly blue And the clouds are partly bright.

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1869.) I I would not if I could undo my past,

'A cup for hope!' she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold

All her corn-fields rippled in the sunshine, All her lovely vines, sweets-laden, bowed; Yet some weeks to harvest and to vintage:

Long have I longed, till I am tired Of longing and desire; Farewell my points in vain desired,

She sitteth still who used to dance, She weepeth sore and more and more - Let us sit with thee weeping sore,

"Arise, depart, for this is not your rest." Oh, burden of all burdens, - still to arise And still depart, nor rest in any wise!

Because you never yet have loved me, dear, Think you you never can nor ever will? Surely while life remains hope lingers still,

I took my heart in my hand (O my love, O my love), I said: Let me fall or stand,

Oh, pleasant eventide! Clouds on the western side Grow grey and greyer hiding the warm sun:

(The Argosy, March 1866.) I We met, hand to hand,

'The iniquity of the fathers upon the children.' Oh the rose of keenest thorn! One hidden summer morn

When will the day bring its pleasure? When will the night bring its rest? Reaper and gleaner and thresher

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

Ah, woe is me for pleasure that is vain, Ah, woe is me for glory that is past: Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last,

I marked where lovely Venus and her court With song and dance and merry laugh went by; Weightless, their wingless feet seemed made to fly,

I would have gone; God bade me stay: I would have worked; God bade me rest. He broke my will from day to day,

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.

Why has Spring one syllable less Than any its fellow season? There may be some other reason,

"O Lord, how canst Thou say Thou lovest me? Me whom thou settest in a barren land, Hungry and thirsty on the burning sand,

(The Argosy, Feb. 1866.) God strengthen me to bear myself; That heaviest weight of all to bear,

Lord, if I love Thee and Thou lovest me, Why need I any more these toilsome days; Why should I not run singing up Thy ways

Pardon the faults in me, For the love of years ago: Good-bye.

Every valley drinks, Every dell and hollow: Where the kind rain sinks and sinks,

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I; Perhaps some day, who knows? But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,

(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1865.) She holds a lily in her hand, Where long ranks of Angels stand,

I dreamed and did not seek: to-day I seek Who can no longer dream; But now am all behindhand, waxen weak,