Escritas

Poems List

The Love Of Christ Which Passeth Kowledge

The Love Of Christ Which Passeth Kowledge

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,
For three and thirty years.


Who else had dared for thee what I have dared?
I plunged the depth most deep from bliss above;
I not My flesh, I not My spirit spared:
Give thou Me love for love.


For thee I thirsted in the daily drouth,
For thee I trembled in the nightly frost:
Much sweeter thou than honey to My mouth:
Why wilt thou still be lost?


I bore thee on My shoulders and rejoiced:
Men only marked upon My shoulders borne
The branding cross; and shouted hungry-voiced,
Or wagged their heads in scorn.


Thee did nails grave upon My hands, thy name
Did thorns for frontlets stamp between Mine eyes:
I, Holy One, put on thy guilt and shame;
I, God, Priest, Sacrifice.


A thief upon My right hand and My left;
Six hours alone, athirst, in misery:
At length in death one smote My heart and cleft
A hiding-place for thee.


Nailed to the racking cross, than bed of down
More dear, whereon to stretch Myself and sleep:
So did I win a kingdom,—share my crown;
A harvest,—come and reap.
141

The Ghost’s Petition

The Ghost’s Petition

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


'There's a footstep coming; O sister, look.'—
'The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes;
No one cometh across the brook.'—


'But he promised that he would come:
To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow,
He must keep his word, and must come home.


'For he promised that he would come:
His word was given; from earth or heaven,
He must keep his word, and must come home.


'Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane;
You can slumber, who need not number
Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.


'I shall sit here awhile, and watch;
Listening, hoping, for one hand groping
In deep shadow to find the latch.'


After the dark, and before the light,
One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping,
Who had watched and wept the weary night.


After the night, and before the day,
One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping—
Watching, weeping for one away.


There came a footstep climbing the stair;
Some one standing out on the landing
Shook the door like a puff of air—


Shook the door, and in he passed.
Did he enter? In the room centre
Stood her husband: the door shut fast.


'O Robin, but you are cold—
Chilled with the night-dew: so lily-white you
Look like a stray lamb from our fold.


'O Robin, but you are late:
Come and sit near me—sit here and cheer me.'—
(Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)


'Lay not down your head on my breast:
I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you
In the shelter that you love best.



'Feel not after my clasping hand:
I am but a shadow, come from the meadow
Where many lie, but no tree can stand.


'We are trees which have shed their leaves:
Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there;
Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.


'I could rest if you would not moan
Hour after hour; I have no power
To shut my ears where I lie alone.


'I could rest if you would not cry;
But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping—
Watching, weeping so bitterly.'—


'Woe's me! woe's me! for this I have heard.
Oh night of sorrow!—oh black to-morrow!
Is it thus that you keep your word?


'O you who used so to shelter me
Warm from the least wind—why, now the east wind
Is warmer than you, whom I quake to see.


'O my husband of flesh and blood,
For whom my mother I left, and brother,
And all I had, accounting it good,


'What do you do there, underground,
In the dark hollow? I'm fain to follow.
What do you do there?—what have you found?'—


'What I do there I must not tell:
But I have plenty: kind wife, content ye:
It is well with us—it is well.


'Tender hand hath made our nest;
Our fear is ended, our hope is blended
With present pleasure, and we have rest.'—


'Oh, but Robin, I'm fain to come,
If your present days are so pleasant;
For my days are so wearisome.


'Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake:
Why should I tease you, who cannot please you
Any more with the pains I take?'
230

The First Day

The First Day

I wish I could remember the first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me;
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say.
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it! Such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much!
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand! - Did one but know!
250

The Dear Old Woman In The Lane

The Dear Old Woman In The Lane

The dear old woman in the lane
Is sick and sore with pains and aches,
We'll go to her this afternoon,
And take her tea and eggs and cakes.
We'll stop to make the kettle boil,
And brew some tea, and set the tray,
And poach an egg, and toast a cake,
And wheel her chair round, if we may.
206

The Convent Threshold

The Convent Threshold

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.
I choose the stairs that mount above,
Stair after golden sky-ward stair,
To city and to sea of glass.
My lily feet are soiled with mud,
With scarlet mud which tells a tale
Of hope that was, of guilt that was,
Of love that shall not yet avail;
Alas, my heart, if I could bare
My heart, this selfsame stain is there:
I seek the sea of glass and fire
To wash the spot, to burn the snare;
Lo, stairs are meant to lift us higher--
Mount with me, mount the kindled stair.


Your eyes look earthward, mine look up.
I see the far-off city grand,
Beyond the hills a watered land,
Beyond the gulf a gleaming strand
Of mansions where the righteous sup;
Who sleep at ease among their trees,
Or wake to sing a cadenced hymn
With Cherubim and Seraphim;
They bore the Cross, they drained the cup,
Racked, roasted, crushed, wrenched limb from limb,
They the offscouring of the world.
The heaven of starry heavens unfurled,
The sun before their face is dim.
You looking earthward, what see you?
Milk-white, wine-flushed among the vines,
Up and down leaping, to and fro,
Most glad, most full, made strong with wines,
Blooming as peaches pearled with dew,
Their golden windy hair afloat,
Love-music warbling in their throat,
Young men and women come and go.


You linger, yet the time is short:
Flee for your life, gird up your strength
To flee; the shadows stretched at length
Show that day wanes, that night draws nigh;
Flee to the mountain, tarry not.
Is this a time for smile and sigh,
For songs among the secret trees
Where sudden blue birds nest and sport?
The time is short and yet you stay:
To-day, while it is called to-day,
Kneel, wrestle, knock, do violence, pray;
To-day is short, to-morrow nigh:
Why will you die? why will you die?



You sinned with me a pleasant sin:
Repent with me, for I repent.
Woe's me the lore I must unlearn!
Woe's me that easy way we went,
So rugged when I would return!
How long until my sleep begin
How long shall stretch these nights and days?
Surely, clean Angels cry, she prays;
She laves her soul with tedious tears:
How long must stretch these years and years?


I turn from you my cheeks and eyes,
My hair which you shall see no more--
Alas for joy that went before,
For joy that dies, for love that dies.
Only my lips still turn to you,
My livid lips that cry, Repent.
O weary life, O weary Lent,
O weary time whose stars are few.


How shall I rest in Paradise,
Or sit on steps of heaven alone
If Saints and Angels spoke of love
Should I not answer from my throne:
Have pity upon me, ye my friends,
For I have heard the sound thereof:
Should I not turn with yearning eyes,
Turn earthwards with a pitiful pang?
Oh save me from a pang in heaven.
By all the gifts we took and gave,
Repent, repent, and be forgiven:
This life is long, but yet it ends;
Repent and purge your soul and save:
No gladder song the morning stars
Upon their birthday morning sang
Than Angels sing when one repents.


I tell you what I dreamed last night:
A spirit with transfigured face
Fire-footed clomb an infinite space.
I heard his hundred pinions clang,
Heaven-bells rejoicing rang and rang,
Heaven-air was thrilled with subtle scents,
Worlds spun upon their rushing cars.
He mounted, shrieking, "Give me light!"
Still light was poured on him, more light;
Angels, Archangels he outstripped,
Exulting in exceeding might,
And trod the skirts of Cherubim.
Still "Give me light," he shrieked; and dipped
His thirsty face, and drank a sea,



Athirst with thirst it could not slake.
I saw him, drunk with knowledge, take
From aching brows the aureole crown--
His locks writhe like a cloven snake--
He left his throne to grovel down
And lick the dust of Seraphs' feet;
For what is knowledge duly weighed?
Knowledge is strong, but love is sweet;
Yea, all the progress he had made
Was but to learn that all is small
Save love, for love is all in all.


I tell you what I dreamed last night:
It was not dark, it was not light,
Cold dews had drenched my plenteous hair
Through clay; you came to seek me there.
And "Do you dream of me?" you said.
My heart was dust that used to leap
To you; I answered half asleep:
"My pillow is damp, my sheets are red,
There's a leaden tester to my bed;
Find you a warmer playfellow,
A warmer pillow for your head,
A kinder love to love than mine."
You wrung your hands, while I, like lead,
Crushed downwards through the sodden earth;
You smote your hands but not in mirth,
And reeled but were not drunk with wine.


For all night long I dreamed of you;
I woke and prayed against my will,
Then slept to dream of you again.
At length I rose and knelt and prayed.
I cannot write the words I said,
My words were slow, my tears were few;
But through the dark my silence spoke
Like thunder. When this morning broke,
My face was pinched, my hair was grey,
And frozen blood was on the sill
Where stifling in my struggle I lay.
If now you saw me you would say:
Where is the face I used to love?
And I would answer: Gone before;
It tarries veiled in paradise.
When once the morning star shall rise,
When earth with shadow flees away
And we stand safe within the door,
Then you shall lift the veil thereof.
Look up, rise up: for far above
Our palms are grown, our place is set;
There we shall meet as once we met,
And love with old familiar love.
227

Symbols

Symbols


I watched a rosebud very long
Brought on by dew and sun and shower,
Waiting to see the perfect flower:
Then, when I thought it should be strong,
It opened at the matin hour
And fell at evensong.


I watched a nest from day to day,
A green nest full of pleasant shade,
Wherein three speckled eggs were laid:
But when they should have hatched in May,
The two old birds had grown afraid
Or tired, and flew away.


Then in my wrath I broke the bough
That I had tended so with care,
Hoping its scent should fill the air;
I crushed the eggs, not heeding how
Their ancient promise had been fair:
I would have vengeance now.


But the dead branch spoke from the sod,
And the eggs answered me again:
Because we failed dost thou complain?
Is thy wrath just? And what if God,
Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain,
Should also take the rod?
217

The Bourne

The Bourne

Underneath the growing grass,
Underneath the living flowers,
Deeper than the sound of showers:
There we shall not count the hours
By the shadows as they pass.


Youth and health will be but vain,
Beauty reckoned of no worth:
There a very little girth
Can hold round what once the earth
Seemed too narrow to contain.
239

Summer

Summer


Winter is cold-hearted
Spring is yea and nay,
Autumn is a weather-cock
Blown every way:
Summer days for me
When every leaf is on its tree;


When Robin's not a beggar,
And Jenny Wren's a bride,
And larks hang singing, singing, singing,
Over the wheat-fields wide,
And anchored lilies ride,
And the pendulum spider
Swings from side to side,


And blue-black beetles transact business,
And gnats fly in a host,
And furry caterpillars hasten
That no time be lost,
And moths grow fat and thrive,
And ladybirds arrive.


Before green apples blush,
Before green nuts embrown,
Why, one day in the country
Is worth a month in town;
Is worth a day and a year
Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion
That days drone elsewhere.
226

Sweet Death

Sweet Death

The sweetest blossoms die.
And so it was that, going day by day
Unto the church to praise and pray,
And crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully,
I saw how on the graves the flowers
Shed their fresh leaves in showers,
And how their perfume rose up to the sky
Before it passed away.


The youngest blossoms die.
They die, and fall and nourish the rich earth
From which they lately had their birth;
Sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth by
And is as though it had not been:—
All colors turn to green:
The bright hues vanish, and the odours fly,
The grass hath lasting worth.


And youth and beauty die.
So be it, O my God, Thou God of truth:
Better than beauty and than youth
Are Saints and Angels, a glad company;
And Thou, O lord, our Rest and Ease,
Are better far than these.
Why should we shrink from our full harvest? why
Prefer to glean with Ruth?
217

Spring Quiet

Spring Quiet

Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing;


Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.


Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green house:


Full of sweet scents,
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
"We spread no snare;


"Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.


"Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be."
278

Comments (0)

ShareOn Facebook WhatsApp X
Log in to post a comment.

NoComments

Identification and basic context

Christina Georgina Rossetti was a prominent English poet of Italian heritage. She is celebrated for her lyrical and devotional poetry, which often delves into themes of love, death, faith, and the transient beauty of the natural world. As a key figure of the Victorian era, her work stands out for its profound spiritual intensity and its exquisite musicality. Her contributions to English literature are substantial, with poems such as 'Goblin Market' and 'Remember' remaining widely read and studied.

Childhood and education

Born into an intellectual and artistic family, Christina Rossetti had an upbringing steeped in literature and religious devotion. Her father, Gabriele Rossetti, was an Italian poet and scholar, and her mother, Frances Polidori Rossetti, was of English and Italian descent. Her siblings included Dante Gabriel Rossetti, a prominent artist and poet, and William Michael Rossetti, an art critic and writer. Christina received her early education at home, where she was tutored by her mother and elder siblings. This environment fostered her early interest in poetry and literature. Her family's strong Anglo-Italian heritage and their devout Christian faith profoundly influenced her formative years and the subsequent themes in her work.

Literary trajectory

Rossetti's literary career began in her teenage years, with early poems circulating among her family and friends. Her first published volume, 'Verses,' appeared in 1847, a collection of poems written between the ages of 12 and 17. She later became associated with the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, primarily through her brother Dante Gabriel. Her most famous work, 'Goblin Market and Other Poems,' was published in 1862 to considerable acclaim, establishing her reputation as a major poet. Throughout her life, she continued to write poetry, devotional prose, and children's verse. Her trajectory was marked by periods of intense creative output interspersed with periods of relative quietude, often influenced by her spiritual convictions and personal circumstances.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Rossetti's major works include 'Goblin Market and Other Poems' (1862), 'The Prince's Progress and Other Poems' (1866), 'Sing-Song: A Nursery Rhyme Book' (1872), and the devotional prose work 'Called to Be Saints' (1881). Her dominant themes include love (both earthly and divine), death, faith, renunciation, temptation, and the beauty and decay of the natural world. Her style is characterized by its lyrical beauty, rich imagery, and strong musicality, often employing symbolism and allegory. She was adept at using varied forms, from sonnets to ballads and nursery rhymes, often experimenting with rhythm and rhyme to create striking effects. Her poetic voice is often introspective, devotional, and deeply emotional, conveying a sense of yearning and spiritual longing. The language is precise yet evocative, rich with sensory detail. Rossetti's work often engages with religious themes, exploring the complexities of faith, doubt, and salvation with a unique blend of personal conviction and poetic artistry.

Cultural and historical context

Christina Rossetti lived during the Victorian era, a period of significant social, religious, and industrial change in Britain. Her work often reflects the religious fervor and the debates surrounding faith and doubt prevalent at the time. Her association with the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood placed her within a significant artistic movement that sought to revive medieval aesthetics and emphasize sincerity and imaginative richness. Her poetry engaged with contemporary issues of social reform and the role of women, though often through a lens of Christian morality and personal introspection. She was a contemporary of poets like Alfred Lord Tennyson and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and her work shares some thematic concerns with theirs, yet possesses a distinctively personal and spiritual quality.

Personal life

Rossetti's personal life was deeply shaped by her devout religious faith, particularly her adherence to the High Church Anglican tradition. This faith led her to twice refuse marriage proposals from men she loved, believing that her spiritual calling superseded earthly attachments. She suffered from various illnesses throughout her life, including Graves' disease, which often limited her activities but also provided subject matter for her contemplative poetry. Her relationship with her family, especially her mother and siblings, was close and supportive, providing a stable anchor in her life. Her dedication to charitable work, particularly with the Magdalen Hospital for fallen women, reflected her compassionate nature and her deep-seated desire to help those in need.

Recognition and reception

Christina Rossetti achieved significant recognition during her lifetime, with 'Goblin Market' being particularly well-received. She was regarded as one of the foremost poets of her day, and her work was admired for its originality, spiritual depth, and lyrical skill. Posthumously, her reputation has continued to flourish. While at times overshadowed by her brother Dante Gabriel, her distinct voice and thematic concerns have secured her a prominent place in the canon of English literature. Her works are widely anthologized and studied for their exploration of faith, love, and the female experience in the Victorian era.

Influences and legacy

Rossetti was influenced by the Bible, devotional writers such as Thomas à Kempis, and poets like George Herbert and John Keats. Her own poetry has had a lasting influence on subsequent generations of poets, particularly in the areas of devotional verse, children's literature, and symbolic poetry. Her exploration of themes related to temptation, sacrifice, and spiritual longing has resonated with many writers. She is also recognized for her significant contributions to the genre of nursery rhymes and children's verse. Her legacy is firmly established through her enduring poems, which continue to be celebrated for their beauty, emotional resonance, and spiritual insight.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Rossetti's poetry is often analyzed for its complex interplay of spiritual and sensual themes. Her poems exploring love and desire are frequently interpreted through the lens of her religious renunciation, leading to discussions about the tension between earthly and divine love. The allegorical nature of 'Goblin Market' has invited numerous critical interpretations, ranging from explorations of female sexuality and temptation to critiques of consumerism and industrialization. Her engagement with themes of death and eternity is also a significant focus of critical study, revealing a profound theological and existential depth.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite her fame, Christina Rossetti was a remarkably private individual. Her deep faith meant she often struggled with worldly temptations, and her poetry reflects this inner conflict. She had a particular affinity for animals and often wrote about them. Her dedication to her religious convictions sometimes led to difficult personal choices, such as refusing marriage. Her creative process was deeply tied to her spiritual life, often involving prayer and contemplation.

Death and memory

Christina Rossetti died in 1894 from breast cancer. She was buried in Highgate Cemetery, London. Her death was mourned by many who recognized her immense contribution to English poetry. Posthumous collections of her work continued to be published, ensuring her enduring place in literary history. Her memory is preserved through the timeless beauty and spiritual depth of her verse.