Christina Rossetti

“Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end.”

“Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.”

“When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.”

“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 cluster, 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 grasshopper comes to trouble, And the wheat-fields are sodden stubble, And all winds go sighing For sweet things dying.”

“O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies, Hushed in and curtained with a blessèd dearth Of all that irked her from the hour of birth; With stillness that is almost Paradise. Darkness more clear than noon-day holdeth her, Silence more musical than any song; Even her very heart has ceased to stir: Until the morning of Eternity Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; And when she wakes she will not think it long.”

“For I am bound with fleshly bands, Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope; I strain my heart, I stretch my hands, And catch at hope.”

“I wish I could remember that first day, First hour, first moment of your meeting me, If bright or dim the season, it might be Summer or Winter for aught I can say; So unrecorded did it slip away, So blind was I to see and to foresee, So dull to mark the budding of my tree That would not blossom yet for many a May.”

“If only I could recollect it, such A day of days! I let it come and go As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow; It seemed to mean so little, meant so much; If only now I could recall that touch, First touch of hand in hand--Did one but know!”

“Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end Sooner, later, at last, Which nothing can mar, nothing mend: An end locked fast, Bent we cannot re-bend.”

“All things that pass Are wisdom's looking-glass; Being full of hope and fear, and still Brimful of good or ill, According to our work and will; For there is nothing new beneath the sun; Our doings have been done, And that which shall be was.”

“Summer is gone with all its roses, Its sun and perfumes and sweet flowers, Its warm air and refreshing showers: And even Autumn closes. Yea, Autumn's chilly self is going, And winter comes which is yet colder; Each day the hoar-frost waxes bolder And the last buds cease blowing.”

“I wonder if the spring-tide of this year Will bring another Spring both lost and dear; If heart and spirit will find out their Spring, Or if the world alone will bud and sing: Sing, hope, to me! Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.”

“In my Autumn garden I was fain To mourn among my scattered roses; Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses To Autumn's languid sun and rain When all the world is on the wane! Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June, Nor heard the nightingale in tune.”

“Broad-faced asters by my garden walk, You are but coarse compared with roses: More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk, That least and last which cold winds balk; A rose it is though least and last of all, A rose to me though at the fall.”

“To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose Scentless, colorless, this! Will it ever be thus (who knows?) Thus with our bliss, If we wait till the close?”

“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,-- God 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 passes 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 passes by, Now newly born, and now Hastening to die.”

“The sunrise wakes the lark to sing, The moonrise wakes the nightingale. Come darkness, moonrise, every thing That is so silent, sweet, and pale: Come, so ye wake the nightingale. Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon, Make haste to wake the nightingale: Let silence set the world in tune To hearken to that wordless tale Which warbles from the nightingale O herald skylark, stay thy flight One moment, for a nightingale Floods us with sorrow and delight. To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail; Leave us to-night the nightingale.”

“Remote, each single star Comes out, till there they are All shining brightly: how the dews fall damp! While close at hand the glow-worm lights her lamp Or twinkles from afar.”

“As the Sun with glory and grace In his face, Benignantly hot, Graciously radiant and keen, Ready to rise and to run,-- Not without spot, Not even the Sun.”

“Oh why is heaven built so far, Oh why is earth set so remote? I cannot reach the nearest star That hangs afloat.”

“I would not care to reach the moon, One round monotonous of change; Yet even she repeats her tune Beyond my range.”

“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.”

“The nation of the awful stars, The wandering star whose blaze is brief, These make me beat against the bars Of my grief; My tedious grief, twin to the life it mars.”

“While opposite the sun a gazing moon Put on his glory for her coronet, Kindling her luminous coldness to its noon, As his great splendor set; One only star made up her train as yet.”

“While we slumber and sleep, The sun leaps up from the deep,-- Daylight born at the leap,-- Rapid, dominant, free, Athirst to bathe in the uttermost sea.”

“Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads The wind is passing by.”