Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 24

"While I sit at the door, Sick to gaze within, Mine eye weepeth sore For sorrow and sin: As a tree my sin stands To darken all lands; Death is the fruit it bore.

"How have Eden bowers grown Without Adam to bend them!

How have Eden flowers blown, Squandering their sweet breath, Without me to tend them!

The Tree of Life was ours, Tree twelvefold-fruited, Most lofty tree that flowers, Most deeply rooted: I chose the Tree of Death.

"Hadst thou but said me nay, Adam, my brother, I might have pined away; I, but none other: G.o.d might have let thee stay Safe in our garden, By putting me away Beyond all pardon.

"I, Eve, sad mother Of all who must live, I, not another, Plucked bitterest fruit to give My friend, husband, lover.

O wanton eyes run over!

Who but I should grieve?-- Cain hath slain his brother: Of all who must die mother, Miserable Eve!"

Thus she sat weeping, Thus Eve, our mother, Where one lay sleeping Slain by his brother.

Greatest and least Each piteous beast To hear her voice Forgot his joys And set aside his feast.

The mouse paused in his walk And dropped his wheaten stalk; Grave cattle wagged their heads In rumination; The eagle gave a cry From his cloud station; Larks on thyme beds Forbore to mount or sing; Bees drooped upon the wing; The raven perched on high Forgot his ration; The conies in their rock, A feeble nation, Quaked sympathetical; The mocking-bird left off to mock; Huge camels knelt as if In deprecation; The kind hart's tears were falling; Chattered the wistful stork; Dove-voices with a dying fall Cooed desolation, Answering grief by grief.

Only the serpent in the dust, Wriggling and crawling, Grinned an evil grin, and thrust His tongue out with its fork.

GROWN AND FLOWN.

I loved my love from green of Spring Until sere Autumn's fall; But now that leaves are withering How should one love at all?

One heart's too small For hunger, cold, love, everything.

I loved my love on sunny days Until late Summer's wane; But now that frost begins to glaze How should one love again?

Nay, love and pain Walk wide apart in diverse ways.

I loved my love,--alas to see That this should be, alas!

I thought that this could scarcely be, Yet has it come to pa.s.s: Sweet sweet love was, Now bitter bitter grown to me.

A FARM WALK.

The year stood at its equinox And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks, Green hardy things were growing; I met a maid with shining locks Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck, Her bare arm showed its dimple, Her ap.r.o.n spread without a speck, Her air was frank and simple.

She milked into a wooden pail And sang a country ditty, An innocent fond lovers' tale, That was not wise nor witty, Pathetically rustical, Too pointless for the city.

She kept in time without a beat As true as church-bell ringers, Unless she tapped time with her feet, Or squeezed it with her fingers; Her clear unstudied notes were sweet As many a practised singer's.

I stood a minute out of sight, Stood silent for a minute To eye the pail, and creamy white The frothing milk within it;

To eye the comely milking maid Herself so fresh and creamy: "Good day to you," at last I said; She turned her head to see me: "Good day," she said, with lifted head; Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,

And all the while she milked and milked The grave cow heavy-laden: I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked, But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter, fresher maid Than this in homely cotton, Whose pleasant face and silky braid I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have pa.s.sed since then, as I Count with a sober sorrow; Seven springs have come and pa.s.sed me by, And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself Free just for once from London, To set my work upon the shelf And leave it done or undone;

To run down by the early train, Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And feel the bluff North blow again, And mark the sprouting thistle Set up on waste patch of the lane Its green and tender bristle,

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks, Crisp primrose leaves and others, And watch the lambs leap at their pranks And b.u.t.t their patient mothers.

Alas, one point in all my plan My serious thoughts demur to: Seven years have pa.s.sed for maid and man, Seven years have pa.s.sed for her too;

Perhaps my rose is overblown, Not rosy or too rosy; Perhaps in farm-house of her own Some husband keeps her cosey, Where I should show a face unknown.

Good by, my wayside posy.

SOMEWHERE OR OTHER.

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

Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far; Past land and sea, clean out of sight; Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near; With just a wall, a hedge, between; With just the last leaves of the dying year Fallen on a turf grown green.

A CHILL.

What can lambkins do All the keen night through?

Nestle by their woolly mother, The careful ewe.

What can nestlings do In the nightly dew?

Sleep beneath their mother's wing Till day breaks anew.

If in field or tree There might only be Such a warm soft sleeping-place Found for me!

CHILD'S TALK IN APRIL.

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