Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 42

Long have I longed, till I am tired Of longing and desire; Farewell my points in vain desired, My dying fire; Farewell all things that die and fail and tire.

Springtide and youth and useless pleasure And all my useless scheming, My hopes of unattainable treasure, Dreams not worth dreaming, Glow-worms that gleam but yield no warmth in gleaming,

Farewell all shows that fade in showing: My wish and joy stand over Until to-morrow; Heaven is glowing Through cloudy cover, Beyond all clouds loves me my Heavenly Lover.

DEATH-WATCHES.

The Spring spreads one green lap of flowers Which Autumn buries at the fall, No chilling showers of Autumn hours Can stay them or recall; Winds sing a dirge, while earth lays out of sight Her garment of delight.

The cloven East brings forth the sun, The cloven West doth bury him What time his gorgeous race is run And all the world grows dim; A funeral moon is lit in heaven's hollow, And pale the star-lights follow.

TOUCHING "NEVER."

Because you never yet have loved me, dear, Think you you never can nor ever will?

Surely while life remains hope lingers still, Hope the last blossom of life's dying year.

Because the season and mine age grow sere, Shall never Spring bring forth her daffodil, Shall never sweeter Summer feast her fill Of roses with the nightingales they hear?

If you had loved me, I not loving you, If you had urged me with the tender plea Of what our unknown years to come might do (Eternal years, if Time should count too few), I would have owned the point you pressed on me, Was possible, or probable, or true.

BRANDONS BOTH.

Oh fair Milly Brandon, a young maid, a fair maid!

All her curls are yellow and her eyes are blue, And her cheeks were rosy red till a secret care made Hollow whiteness of their brightness as a care will do.

Still she tends her flowers, but not as in the old days, Still she sings her songs, but not the songs of old: If now it be high Summer her days seem brief and cold days, If now it be high Summer her nights are long and cold.

If you have a secret keep it, pure maid Milly; Life is filled with troubles and the world with scorn; And pity without love is at best times hard and chilly, Chilling sore and stinging sore a heart forlorn.

Walter Brandon, do you guess Milly Brandon's secret?

Many things you know, but not everything, With your locks like raven's plumage, and eyes like an egret, And a laugh that is music, and such a voice to sing.

Nelly Knollys, she is fair, but she is not fairer Than fairest Milly Brandon was before she turned so pale: Oh, but Nelly's dearer if she be not rarer, She need not keep a secret or blush behind a veil.

Beyond the first green hills, beyond the nearest valleys, Nelly dwells at home beneath her mother's eyes: Her home is neat and homely, not a cot and not a palace, Just the home where love sets up his happiest memories.

Milly has no mother; and sad beyond another Is she whose blessed mother is vanished out of call: Truly comfort beyond comfort is stored up in a mother Who bears with all, and hopes through all, and loves us all.

Where peac.o.c.ks nod and flaunt up and down the terrace, Furling and unfurling their scores of sightless eyes, To and fro among the leaves and buds and flowers and berries Maiden Milly strolls and pauses, smiles and sighs.

On the hedged-in terrace of her father's palace She may stroll and muse alone, may smile or sigh alone, Letting thoughts and eyes go wandering over hills and valleys To-day her father's, and one day to be all her own.

If her thoughts go coursing down lowlands and up highlands, It is because the startled game are leaping from their lair; If her thoughts dart homeward to the reedy river islands, It is because the waterfowl rise startled here or there.

At length a footfall on the steps: she turns, composed and steady, All the long-descended greatness of her father's house Lifting up her head; and there stands Walter keen and ready For hunting or for hawking, a flush upon his brows.

"Good-morrow, fair cousin." "Good-morrow, fairest cousin: The sun has started on his course, and I must start to-day.

If you have done me one good turn you've done me many a dozen, And I shall often think of you, think of you away."

"Over hill and hollow what quarry will you follow, Or what fish will you angle for beside the river's edge?

There's cloud upon the hill-top and there 's mist deep down the hollow, And fog among the rushes and the rustling sedge."

"I shall speed well enough be it hunting or hawking, Or casting a bait towards the shyest daintiest fin.

But I kiss your hands, my cousin; I must not loiter talking, For nothing comes of nothing, and I'm fain to seek and win."

"Here's a th.o.r.n.y rose: will you wear it an hour, Till the petals drop apart still fresh and pink and sweet?

Till the petals drop from the drooping perished flower, And only the graceless thorns are left of it."

"Nay, I have another rose sprung in another garden, Another rose which sweetens all the world for me.

Be you a tenderer mistress and be you a warier warden Of your rose, as sweet as mine, and full as fair to see."

"Nay, a bud once plucked there is no reviving, Nor is it worth your wearing now, nor worth indeed my own; The dead to the dead, and the living to the living.

It's time I go within, for it's time now you were gone."

"Good-bye, Milly Brandon, I shall not forget you, Though it be good-bye between us for ever from to-day; I could almost wish to-day that I had never met you, And I'm true to you in this one word that I say."

"Good-bye, Walter. I can guess which thornless rose you covet; Long may it bloom and prolong its sunny morn: Yet as for my one th.o.r.n.y rose, I do not cease to love it, And if it is no more a flower I love it as a thorn."

A LIFE'S PARALLELS.

Never on this side of the grave again, On this side of the river, On this side of the garner of the grain, Never,--

Ever while time flows on and on and on, That narrow noiseless river, Ever while corn bows heavy-headed, wan, Ever,--

Never despairing, often fainting, ruing, But looking back, ah never!

Faint yet pursuing, faint yet still pursuing Ever.

AT LAST.

Many have sung of love a root of bane: While to my mind a root of balm it is, For love at length breeds love; sufficient bliss For life and death and rising up again.

Surely when light of Heaven makes all things plain, Love will grow plain with all its mysteries; Nor shall we need to fetch from over seas Wisdom or wealth or pleasure safe from pain.

Love in our borders, love within our heart, Love all in all, we then shall bide at rest, Ended for ever life's unending quest, Ended for ever effort, change and fear: Love all in all;--no more that better part Purchased, but at the cost of all things here.