Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 37

Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim And grim, With dismal ways.

What cheer, November?

_November._

[Entering and shutting the door.]

Nought have I to bring, Tramping a-chill and s.h.i.+vering, Except these pine-cones for a blaze,-- Except a fog which follows, And stuffs up all the hollows,-- Except a h.o.a.r frost here and there,-- Except some shooting stars Which dart their luminous cars Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air.

[October, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the background, while November throws her pine cones on the fire, and sits down listlessly.]

_November._

The earth lies fast asleep, grown tired Of all that's high or deep; There's nought desired and nought required Save a sleep.

I rock the cradle of the earth, I lull her with a sigh; And know that she will wake to mirth By and by.

[Through the window December is seen running and leaping in the direction of the door. He knocks.]

_November._

[Calls out without rising.]

Ah, here's my youngest brother come at last: Come in, December.

[He opens the door and enters, loaded with evergreens in berry, etc.]

_November._

Come, and shut the door, For now it's snowing fast; It snows, and will snow more and more; Don't let it drift in on the floor.

But you, you're all aglow; how can you be Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold?

_December._

Nay, no closed doors for me, But open doors and open hearts and glee To welcome young and old.

Dimmest and brightest month am I; My short days end, my lengthening days begin; What matters more or less sun in the sky, When all is sun within?

[He begins making a wreath as he sings.

Ivy and privet dark as night, I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show, And holly for a beauty and delight, And milky mistletoe.

While high above them all I set Yew twigs and Christmas roses pure and pale; Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet May keep, so sweet and frail;

May keep each merry singing bird, Of all her happy birds that singing build: For I've a carol which some shepherds heard Once in a wintry field.

[While December concludes his song all the other Months troop in from the garden, or advance out of the background.

The Twelve join hands in a circle, and begin dancing round to a stately measure as the Curtain falls.]

PASTIME.

A boat amid the ripples, drifting, rocking, Two idle people, without pause or aim; While in the ominous west there gathers darkness Flushed with flame.

A hayc.o.c.k in a hayfield backing, lapping, Two drowsy people pillowed round about; While in the ominous west across the darkness Flame leaps out.

Better a wrecked life than a life so aimless, Better a wrecked life than a life so soft; The ominous west glooms thundering, with its fire Lit aloft.

"ITALIA, IO TI SALUTO!"

To come back from the sweet South, to the North Where I was born, bred, look to die; Come back to do my day's work in its day, Play out my play-- Amen, amen, say I.

To see no more the country half my own, Nor hear the half familiar speech, Amen, I say; I turn to that bleak North Whence I came forth-- The South lies out of reach.

But when our swallows fly back to the South, To the sweet South, to the sweet South, The tears may come again into my eyes On the old wise, And the sweet name to my mouth.

MIRRORS OF LIFE AND DEATH.

The mystery of Life, the mystery Of Death, I see Darkly as in a gla.s.s; Their shadows pa.s.s, And talk with me.

As the flush of a Morning Sky, As a Morning Sky colorless-- Each yields its measure of light To a wet world or a dry; Each fares through day to night With equal pace, And then each one Is done.

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.

As the Moon On the wax, on the wane, With night for her noon; Vanis.h.i.+ng soon, To appear again.

As Roses that droop Half warm, half chill, in the languid May, And breathe out a scent Sweet and faint; Till the wind gives one swoop To scatter their beauty away.

As Lilies a mult.i.tude, One dipping, one rising, one sinking, On rippling waters, clear blue And pure for their drinking; One new dead, and one opened anew, And all good.

As a cankered pale Flower, With death for a dower, Each hour of its life half dead; With death for a crown Weighing down Its head.

As an Eagle, half strength and half grace, Most potent to face Unwinking the splendor of light; Harrying the East and the West, Soaring aloft from our sight; Yet one day or one night dropped to rest, On the low common earth Of his birth.

As a Dove, Not alone, In a world of her own Full of fluttering soft noises And tender sweet voices Of love.

As a Mouse Keeping house In the fork of a tree, With nuts in a crevice, And an acorn or two; What cares he For blossoming boughs, Or the song-singing bevies Of birds in their glee, Scarlet, or golden, or blue?

As a Mole grubbing underground; When it comes to the light It grubs its way back again, Feeling no bias of fur To hamper it in its stir, Scant of pleasure and pain, Sinking itself out of sight Without sound.

As Waters that drop and drop, Weariness without end, That drop and never stop, Wear that nothing can mend, Till one day they drop-- Stop-- And there's an end, And matters mend.