Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 18

I took my heart in my hand (O my love, O my love), I said: Let me fall or stand, Let me live or die, But this once hear me speak (O my love, O my love); Yet a woman's words are weak: You should speak, not I.

You took my heart in your hand With a friendly smile, With a critical eye you scanned, Then set it down, And said: It is still unripe, Better wait awhile; Wait while the skylarks pipe, Till the corn grows brown.

As you set it down it broke,-- Broke, but I did not wince; I smiled at the speech you spoke, At your judgment that I heard: But I have not often smiled Since then, nor questioned since, Nor cared for corn-flowers wild, Nor sung with the singing bird.

I take my heart in my hand, O my G.o.d, O my G.o.d, My broken heart in my hand: Thou hast seen, judge Thou.

My hope was written on sand, O my G.o.d, O my G.o.d; Now let Thy judgment stand,-- Yea, judge me now.

This contemned of a man, This marred one heedless day, This heart take Thou to scan Both within and without: Refine with fire its gold, Purge Thou its dross away,-- Yea, hold it in Thy hold, Whence none can pluck it out.

I take my heart in my hand,-- I shall not die, but live,-- Before Thy face I stand; I, for Thou callest such: All that I have I bring, All that I am I give, Smile Thou and I shall sing, But shall not question much.

SONGS IN A CORNFIELD.

A song in a cornfield Where corn begins to fall, Where reapers are reaping, Reaping one, reaping all.

Sing pretty Lettice, Sing Rachel, sing May; Only Marian cannot sing While her sweetheart's away.

Where is he gone to And why does he stay?

He came across the green sea But for a day, Across the deep green sea To help with the hay.

His hair was curly yellow And his eyes were gray, He laughed a merry laugh And said a sweet say.

Where is he gone to That he comes not home?

To-day or to-morrow He surely will come.

Let him haste to joy Lest he lag for sorrow, For one weeps to-day Who'll not weep to-morrow:

To-day she must weep For gnawing sorrow, To-night she may sleep And not wake to-morrow.

May sang with Rachel In the waxing warm weather, Lettice sang with them, They sang all together:--

"Take the wheat in your arm Whilst day is broad above, Take the wheat to your bosom, But not a false false love.

Out in the fields Summer heat gloweth, Out in the fields Summer wind bloweth, Out in the fields Summer friend showeth, Out in the fields Summer wheat groweth: But in the winter When summer heat is dead And summer wind has veered And summer friend has fled, Only summer wheat remaineth, White cakes and bread.

Take the wheat, clasp the wheat That's food for maid and dove; Take the wheat to your bosom, But not a false false love."

A silence of full noontide heat Grew on them at their toil: The farmer's dog woke up from sleep, The green snake hid her coil Where gra.s.s stood thickest; bird and beast Sought shadows as they could, The reaping men and women paused And sat down where they stood; They ate and drank and were refreshed, For rest from toil is good.

While the reapers took their ease, Their sickles lying by, Rachel sang a second strain, And singing seemed to sigh:--

"There goes the swallow,-- Could we but follow!

Hasty swallow stay, Point us out the way; Look back swallow, turn back swallow, stop swallow.

"There went the swallow,-- Too late to follow: Lost our note of way, Lost our chance to-day; Good by swallow, sunny swallow, wise swallow.

"After the swallow All sweet things follow: All things go their way, Only we must stay, Must not follow: good by swallow, good swallow."

Then listless Marian raised her head Among the nodding sheaves; Her voice was sweeter than that voice; She sang like one who grieves: Her voice was sweeter than its wont Among the nodding sheaves; All wondered while they heard her sing Like one who hopes and grieves:--

"Deeper than the hail can smite, Deeper than the frost can bite, Deep asleep through day and night, Our delight.

"Now thy sleep no pang can break, No to-morrow bid thee wake, Not our sobs who sit and ache For thy sake.

"Is it dark or light below?

O, but is it cold like snow?

Dost thou feel the green things grow Fast or slow?

"Is it warm or cold beneath, O, but is it cold like death?

Cold like death, without a breath, Cold like death?"

If he comes to-day He will find her weeping; If he comes to-morrow He will find her sleeping; If he comes the next day He'll not find her at all, He may tear his curling hair, Beat his breast and call.

A YEAR'S WINDFALLS.

On the wind of January Down flits the snow, Travelling from the frozen North As cold as it can blow.

Poor robin redbreast, Look where he comes; Let him in to feel your fire, And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February Snow-flakes float still, Half inclined to turn to rain, Nipping, dripping, chill.

Then the thaws swell the streams, And swollen rivers swell the sea:-- If the winter ever ends How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March The catkins drop down, Curly, caterpillar-like, Curious green and brown.

With concourse of nest-building birds And leaf-buds by the way, We begin to think of flowers And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall, On the hedged-in orchard-green, From the southern wall.

Apple-trees and pear-trees Shed petals white or pink, Plum-trees and peach-trees; While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze Beside pure scent of flowers, While all things wax and nothing wanes In lengthening daylight hours.

Across the hyacinth beds The wind lags warm and sweet, Across the hawthorn tops, Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June Thrives the red rose crop, Every day fresh blossoms blow While the first leaves drop; White rose and yellow rose And moss-rose choice to find, And the cottage cabbage-rose Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July Drives the pelting hail, From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.

Weedy waves are tossed ash.o.r.e, Sea-things strange to sight Gasp upon the barren sh.o.r.e And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind, Cornfields bow the head, Sheltered in round valley depths, On low hills outspread.

Early leaves drop loitering down Weightless on the breeze, First-fruits of the year's decay From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September The heavy-headed fruits Shake upon their bending boughs And drop from the shoots; Some glow golden in the sun, Some show green and streaked Some set forth a purple bloom, Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October At the equinox, Stirred up in his hollow bed Broad ocean rocks; Plunge the s.h.i.+ps on his bosom, Leaps and plunges the foam,-- It's O for mothers' sons at sea, That they were safe at home!

In slack wind of November The fog forms and s.h.i.+fts; All the world comes out again When the fog lifts.

Loosened from their sapless twigs Leaves drop with every gust; Drifting, rustling, out of sight In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December, The year's sands nearly run, Speeds on the shortest day, Curtails the sun; With its bleak raw wind Lays the last leaves low, Brings back the nightly frosts, Brings back the snow.