Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 21

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: O, 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.

THE BOURNE.

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

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.

SUMMER.

Winter is cold-hearted, Spring is yea and nay, Autumn is a weatherc.o.c.k 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 anch.o.r.ed 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.

AUTUMN.

I dwell alone,--I dwell alone, alone, Whilst full my river flows down to the sea, Gilded with flashing boats That bring no friend to me: O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats, O love-pangs, let me be.

Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone And spices bear to sea: Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes, Love-promising, entreating,-- Ah! sweet, but fleeting,-- Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.

Hush! the wind flags and fails,-- Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand,-- Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone; Their songs wake singing echoes in my land,-- They cannot hear me moan.

One latest, solitary swallow flies Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tost, Poor bird, shall it be lost?

Dropped down into this uncongenial sea, With no kind eyes To watch it while it dies, Unguessed, uncared for, free: Set free at last, The short pang past, In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.

Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks, Some rent by thunder-strokes, Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze: Fair fall my fertile trees, That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.

A spider's web blocks all mine avenue; He catches down and foolish painted flies, That spider wary and wise.

Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew Betwixt boughs green with sap, So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap: I will not mar the web, Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.

It shakes,--my trees shake; for a wind is roused In cavern where it housed: Each white and quivering sail, Of boats among the water leaves Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale: Each maiden sings again,-- Each languid maiden, whom the calm Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm, Miles down my river to the sea They float and wane, Long miles away from me.

Perhaps they say: "She grieves, Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower."

Perhaps they say: "One hour More, and we dance among the golden sheaves."

Perhaps they say: "One hour More, and we stand, Face to face, hand in hand; Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!"

My trees are not in flower, I have no bower, And gusty creaks my tower, And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.

THE GHOST'S PEt.i.tION.

"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 pa.s.sed.

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.

O, night of sorrow!--O, 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,