Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 51

10.

Tread softly! all the earth is holy ground.

It may be, could we look with seeing eyes, This spot we stand on is a Paradise Where dead have come to life and lost been found, Where Faith has triumphed, Martyrdom been crowned, Where fools have foiled the wisdom of the wise; From this same spot the dust of saints may rise, And the King's prisoners come to light unbound.

O earth, earth, earth, hear thou thy Maker's Word: "Thy dead thou shalt give up, nor hide thy slain"-- Some who went weeping forth shall come again Rejoicing from the east or from the west, As doves fly to their windows, love's own bird Contented and desirous to the nest.[1]

[Footnote 1:

"Quali colombe dal disio chiamate Con l'ali aperte e ferme al dolce nido Volan per l'aer dal voler portate."

Dante.]

11.

Lifelong our stumbles, lifelong our regret, Lifelong our efforts failing and renewed, While lifelong is our witness, "G.o.d is good:"

Who bore with us till now, bears with us yet, Who still remembers and will not forget, Who gives us light and warmth and daily food; And gracious promises half understood, And glories half unveiled, whereon to set Our heart of hearts and eyes of our desire; Uplifting us to longing and to love, Luring us upward from this world of mire, Urging us to press on and mount above Ourselves and all we have had experience of, Mounting to Him in love's perpetual fire.

12.

A dream there is wherein we are fain to scream, While struggling with ourselves we cannot speak: And much of all our waking life, as weak And misconceived, eludes us like the dream.

For half life's seemings are not what they seem, And vain the laughs we laugh, the shrieks we shriek; Yea, all is vain that mars the settled meek Contented quiet of our daily theme.

When I was young I deemed that sweets are sweet: But now I deem some searching bitters are Sweeter than sweets, and more refres.h.i.+ng far, And to be relished more, and more desired, And more to be pursued on eager feet, On feet untired, and still on feet though tired.

13.

Shame is a shadow cast by sin: yet shame Itself may be a glory and a grace, Refas.h.i.+oning the sin-disfas.h.i.+oned face; A n.o.bler bruit than hollow-sounded fame, A new-lit l.u.s.tre on a tarnished name, One virtue pent within an evil place, Strength for the fight, and swiftness for the race, A stinging salve, a life-requickening flame.

A salve so searching we may scarcely live, A flame so fierce it seems that we must die, An actual cautery thrust into the heart: Nevertheless, men die not of such smart; And shame gives back what nothing else can give, Man to himself,--then sets him up on high.

14.

When Adam and when Eve left Paradise Did they love on and cling together still, Forgiving one another all that ill The twain had wrought on such a different wise?

She propped upon his strength, and he in guise Of lover though of lord, girt to fulfil Their term of life and die when G.o.d should will; Lie down and sleep, and having slept arise.

Boast not against us, O our enemy!

To-day we fall, but we shall rise again; We grope to-day, to-morrow we shall see: What is to-day that we should fear to-day?

A morrow cometh which shall sweep away Thee and thy realm of change and death and pain.

15.

Let woman fear to teach and bear to learn, Remembering the first woman's first mistake.

Eve had for pupil the inquiring snake, Whose doubts she answered on a great concern; But he the tables so contrived to turn, It next was his to give and hers to take; Till man deemed poison sweet for her sweet sake, And fired a train by which the world must burn.

Did Adam love his Eve from first to last?

I think so; as we love who works us ill, And wounds us to the quick, yet loves us still.

Love pardons the unpardonable past: Love in a dominant embrace holds fast His frailer self, and saves without her will.

16.

Our teachers teach that one and one make two: Later, Love rules that one and one make one: Abstruse the problems! neither need we shun, But skilfully to each should yield its due.

The narrower total seems to suit the few, The wider total suits the common run; Each obvious in its sphere like moon or sun; Both provable by me, and both by you.

Befogged and witless, in a wordy maze A groping stroll perhaps may do us good; If cloyed we are with much we have understood, If tired of half our dusty world and ways, If sick of fasting, and if sick of food;-- And how about these long still-lengthening days?

17.

Something this foggy day, a something which Is neither of this fog nor of to-day, Has set me dreaming of the winds that play Past certain cliffs, along one certain beach, And turn the topmost edge of waves to spray: Ah pleasant pebbly strand so far away, So out of reach while quite within my reach, As out of reach as India or Cathay!

I am sick of where I am and where I am not, I am sick of foresight and of memory, I am sick of all I have and all I see, I am sick of self, and there is nothing new; Oh weary impatient patience of my lot!-- Thus with myself: how fares it, Friends, with you?

18.

So late in Autumn half the world's asleep, And half the wakeful world looks pinched and pale; For dampness now, not freshness, rides the gale; And cold and colorless comes ash.o.r.e the deep With tides that bl.u.s.ter or with tides that creep; Now veiled uncouthness wears an uncouth veil Of fog, not sultry haze; and blight and bale Have done their worst, and leaves rot on the heap.

So late in Autumn one forgets the Spring, Forgets the Summer with its opulence, The callow birds that long have found a wing, The swallows that more lately gat them hence: Will anything like Spring, will anything Like Summer, rouse one day the slumbering sense?

19.

Here now is Winter. Winter, after all, Is not so drear as was my boding dream While Autumn gleamed its latest watery gleam On sapless leaf.a.ge too inert to fall.

Still leaves and berries clothe my garden wall Where ivy thrives on scantiest sunny beam; Still here a bud and there a blossom seem Hopeful, and robin still is musical.

Leaves, flowers and fruit and one delightful song Remain; these days are short, but now the nights Intense and long, hang out their utmost lights; Such starry nights are long, yet not too long; Frost nips the weak, while strengthening still the strong Against that day when Spring sets all to rights.

20.

A hundred thousand birds salute the day:-- One solitary bird salutes the night: Its mellow grieving wiles our grief away, And tunes our weary watches to delight; It seems to sing the thoughts we cannot say, To know and sing them, and to set them right; Until we feel once more that May is May, And hope some buds may bloom without a blight.

This solitary bird outweighs, outvies, The hundred thousand merry-making birds Whose innocent warblings yet might make us wise Would we but follow when they bid us rise, Would we but set their notes of praise to words And launch our hearts up with them to the skies.

21.

A host of things I take on trust: I take The nightingales on trust, for few and far Between those actual summer moments are When I have heard what melody they make.

So chanced it once at Como on the Lake: But all things, then, waxed musical; each star Sang on its course, each breeze sang on its car, All harmonies sang to senses wide-awake.

All things in tune, myself not out of tune, Those nightingales were nightingales indeed: Yet truly an owl had satisfied my need, And wrought a rapture underneath that moon, Or simple sparrow chirping from a reed; For June that night glowed like a doubled June.

22.

The mountains in their overwhelming might Moved me to sadness when I saw them first, And afterwards they moved me to delight; Struck harmonies from silent chords which burst Out into song, a song by memory nursed; Forever unrenewed by touch or sight Sleeps the keen magic of each day or night, In pleasure and in wonder then immersed.

All Switzerland behind us on the ascent, All Italy before us we plunged down St. Gothard, garden of forget-me-not: Yet why should such a flower choose such a spot?

Could we forget that way which once we went Though not one flower had bloomed to weave its crown?

23.