Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 2

He took me in his strong white arms, He bore me on his horse away O'er crag, mora.s.s, and hair-breadth pa.s.s, But never asked me yea or nay.

He made me fast with book and bell, With links of love he makes me stay; Till now I've neither heart nor power Nor will nor wish to say him nay.

WINTER RAIN.

Every valley drinks, Every dell and hollow: Where the kind rain sinks and sinks, Green of Spring will follow.

Yet a lapse of weeks Buds will burst their edges, Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks, In the woods and hedges;

Weave a bower of love For birds to meet each other, Weave a canopy above Nest and egg and mother.

But for fattening rain We should have no flowers, Never a bud or leaf again But for soaking showers;

Never a mated bird In the rocking tree-tops, Never indeed a flock or herd To graze upon the lea-crops.

Lambs so woolly white, Sheep the sun-bright leas on, They could have no gra.s.s to bite But for rain in season.

We should find no moss In the shadiest places, Find no waving meadow-gra.s.s Pied with broad-eyed daisies;

But miles of barren sand, With never a son or daughter, Not a lily on the land, Or lily on the water.

A DIRGE.

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 cl.u.s.ter, Or, at least, when lithe swallows muster For their far off flying From summer dying.

Why did you die when the lambs were cropping?

You should have died at the apples' dropping, When the gra.s.shopper comes to trouble, And the wheat-fields are sodden stubble, And all winds go sighing For sweet things dying.

CONFLUENTS

As rivers seek the sea, Much more deep than they, So my soul seeks thee Far away: As running rivers moan On their course alone So I moan Left alone.

As the delicate rose To the sun's sweet strength Doth herself unclose, Breadth and length: So spreads my heart to thee Unveiled utterly, I to thee Utterly.

As morning dew exhales Sunwards pure and free, So my spirit fails After thee: As dew leaves not a trace On the green earth's face; I, no trace On thy face.

Its goal the river knows, Dewdrops find a way, Sunlight cheers the rose In her day: Shall I, lone sorrow past, Find thee at the last?

Sorrow past, Thee at last?

n.o.bLE SISTERS.

"Now did you mark a falcon, Sister dear, sister dear, Flying toward my window In the morning cool and clear?

With jingling bells about her neck, But what beneath her wing?

It may have been a ribbon, Or it may have been a ring."-- "I marked a falcon swooping At the break of day: And for your love, my sister dove, I 'frayed the thief away."--

"Or did you spy a ruddy hound, Sister fair and tall, Went snuffing round my garden bound, Or crouched by my bower wall?

With a silken leash about his neck; But in his mouth may be A chain of gold and silver links, Or a letter writ to me."-- "I heard a hound, high-born sister, Stood baying at the moon: I rose and drove him from your wall Lest you should wake too soon."--

"Or did you meet a pretty page Sat swinging on the gate; Sat whistling, whistling like a bird, Or may be slept too late: With eaglets broidered on his cap, And eaglets on his glove?

If you had turned his pockets out, You had found some pledge of love."-- "I met him at this daybreak, Scarce the east was red: Lest the creaking gate should anger you, I packed him home to bed."--

"O patience, sister. Did you see A young man tall and strong, Swift-footed to uphold the right And to uproot the wrong, Come home across the desolate sea To woo me for his wife?

And in his heart my heart is locked, And in his life my life."-- "I met a nameless man, sister, Who loitered round our door: I said: Her husband loves her much.

And yet she loves him more."--

"Fie, sister, fie, a wicked lie, A lie, a wicked lie; I have none other love but him, Nor will have till I die.

And you have turned him from our door, And stabbed him with a lie: I will go seek him thro' the world In sorrow till I die."-- "Go seek in sorrow, sister, And find in sorrow too: If thus you shame our father's name My curse go forth with you."

SPRING.

Frost-locked all the winter, Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits, What shall make their sap ascend That they may put forth shoots?

Tips of tender green, Leaf, or blade, or sheath; Telling of the hidden life That breaks forth underneath, Life nursed in its grave by Death.

Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly, Drips the soaking rain, By fits looks down the waking sun: Young gra.s.s springs on the plain; Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees; Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits, Swollen with sap, put forth their shoots; Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane; Birds sing and pair again.

There is no time like Spring, When life's alive in everything, Before new nestlings sing, Before cleft swallows speed their journey back Along the trackless track,-- G.o.d guides their wing, He spreads their table that they nothing lack,-- Before the daisy grows a common flower, Before the sun has power To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.

There is no time like Spring, Like Spring that pa.s.ses by; There is no life like Spring-life born to die,-- Piercing the sod, Clothing the uncouth clod, Hatched in the nest, Fledged on the windy bough, Strong on the wing: There is no time like Spring that pa.s.ses by, Now newly born, and now Hastening to die.

THE LAMBS OF GRASMERE, 1860.

The upland flocks grew starved and thinned: Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs Whose milkless mothers b.u.t.ted them, Or who were orphaned of their dams.

The lambs athirst for mother's milk Filled all the place with piteous sounds: Their mothers' bones made white for miles The pastureless wet pasture grounds.

Day after day, night after night, From lamb to lamb the shepherds went, With teapots for the bleating mouths Instead of nature's nourishment.

The little shivering gaping things Soon knew the step that brought them aid, And fondled the protecting hand, And rubbed it with a woolly head.

Then, as the days waxed on to weeks, It was a pretty sight to see These lambs with frisky heads and tails Skipping and leaping on the lea, Bleating in tender, trustful tones, Resting on rocky crag or mound, And following the beloved feet That once had sought for them and found.

These very shepherds of their flocks, These loving lambs so meek to please, Are worthy of recording words And honor in their due degrees: So I might live a hundred years, And roam from strand to foreign strand, Yet not forget this flooded spring And scarce-saved lambs of Westmoreland.