Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 17

O mother, linger at your door, And light your lamp to make it plain; But Jessie she comes home no more, No more again.

They stood together on the strand, They only, each by each; Home, her home, was close at hand, Utterly out of reach.

Her mother in the chimney nook Heard a startled sea-gull screech, But never turned her head to look Towards the darkening beach: Neighbors here and neighbors there Heard one scream, as if a bird Shrilly screaming cleft the air:-- That was all they heard.

Jessie she comes home no more, Comes home never; Her lover's step sounds at his door No more forever.

And boats may search upon the sea And search along the river, But none know where the bodies be: Sea-winds that shiver, Sea-birds that breast the blast, Sea-waves swelling, Keep the secret first and last Of their dwelling.

Whether the tide so hemmed them round With its pitiless flow, That when they would have gone they found No way to go; Whether she scorned him to the last With words flung to and fro, Or clung to him when hope was past, None will ever know: Whether he helped or hindered her, Threw up his life or lost it well, The troubled sea, for all its stir, Finds no voice to tell.

Only watchers by the dying Have thought they heard one pray, Wordless, urgent; and replying, One seem to say him nay: And watchers by the dead have heard A windy swell from miles away, With sobs and screams, but not a word Distinct for them to say: And watchers out at sea have caught Glimpse of a pale gleam here or there, Come and gone as quick as thought, Which might be hand or hair.

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 white-thorn 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."

THE POOR GHOST.

"O 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, And your voice as hollow as the hollow sea?"

"From the other world I come back to you, My locks are uncurled with dripping, drenching dew.

You know the old, whilst I know the new: But to-morrow you shall know this too."

"O, not to-morrow into the dark, I pray; O, not to-morrow, too soon to go away: Here I feel warm and well-content and gay: Give me another year, another day."

"Am I so changed in a day and a night That mine own only love shrinks from me with fright, Is fain to turn away to left or right, And cover up his eyes from the sight?"

"Indeed I loved you, my chosen friend, I loved you for life, but life has an end; Through sickness I was ready to tend; But death mars all, which we cannot mend.

"Indeed I loved you; I love you yet If you will stay where your bed is set, Where I have planted a violet Which the wind waves, which the dew makes wet."

"Life is gone, then love too is gone, It was a reed that I leant upon: Never doubt I will leave you alone And not wake you rattling bone with bone.

"I go home alone to my bed, Dug deep at the foot and deep at the head, Roofed in with a load of lead, Warm enough for the forgotten dead.

"But why did your tears soak through the clay, And why did your sobs wake me where I lay?

I was away, far enough away: Let me sleep now till the Judgment Day."

A PORTRAIT.

I.

She gave up beauty in her tender youth, Gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways; She covered up her eyes lest they should gaze On vanity, and chose the bitter truth.

Harsh towards herself, towards others full of ruth, Servant of servants, little known to praise, Long prayers and fasts trenched on her nights and days: She schooled herself to sights and sounds uncouth, That with the poor and stricken she might make A home, until the least of all sufficed Her wants; her own self learned she to forsake, Counting all earthly gain but hurt and loss.

So with calm will she chose and bore the cross, And hated all for love of Jesus Christ.

II.

They knelt in silent anguish by her bed, And could not weep; but calmly there she lay.

All pain had left her; and the sun's last ray Shone through upon her, warming into red The shady curtains. In her heart she said: "Heaven opens; I leave these and go away: The Bridegroom calls,--shall the Bride seek to stay?"

Then low upon her breast she bowed her head.

O lily-flower, O gem of priceless worth, O dove with patient voice and patient eyes, O fruitful vine amid a land of dearth, O maid replete with loving purities, Thou bowedst down thy head with friends on earth To raise it with the saints in Paradise.

DREAM-LOVE.

Young Love lies sleeping In May-time of the year, Among the lilies, Lapped in the tender light: White lambs come grazing, White doves come building there; And round about him The May-bushes are white.

Soft moss the pillow For O, a softer cheek; Broad leaves cast shadow Upon the heavy eyes: There winds and waters Grow lulled and scarcely speak; There twilight lingers The longest in the skies.

Young Love lies dreaming; But who shall tell the dream?

A perfect sunlight On rustling forest tips; Or perfect moonlight Upon a rippling stream; Or perfect silence, Or song of cherished lips.

Burn odors round him To fill the drowsy air; Weave silent dances Around him to and fro; For O, in waking, The sights are not so fair, And song and silence Are not like these below.

Young Love lies dreaming Till summer days are gone, Dreaming and drowsing Away to perfect sleep: He sees the beauty Sun hath not looked upon, And tastes the fountain Unutterably deep.

Him perfect music Doth hush unto his rest, And through the pauses The perfect silence calms: O, poor the voices Of earth from east to west, And poor earth's stillness Between her stately palms.

Young Love lies drowsing Away to poppied death; Cool shadows deepen Across the sleeping face: So fails the summer With warm, delicious breath; And what hath autumn To give us in its place?

Draw close the curtains Of branched evergreen; Change cannot touch them With fading fingers sere: Here the first violets Perhaps will bud unseen, And a dove, maybe, Return to nestle here.

TWICE.