Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 52

Beyond the seas we know stretch seas unknown, Blue and bright-colored for our dim and green; Beyond the lands we see, stretch lands unseen With many-tinted tangle overgrown; And icebound seas there are like seas of stone, Serenely stormless as death lies serene; And lifeless tracks of sand, which intervene Betwixt the lands where living flowers are blown.

This dead and living world befits our case Who live and die: we live in wearied hope, We die in hope not dead; we run a race To-day, and find no present halting-place; All things we see lie far within our scope, And still we peer beyond with craving face.

24.

The wise do send their hearts before them to Dear blessed Heaven, despite the veil between; The foolish nurse their hearts within the screen Of this familiar world, where all we do Or have is old, for there is nothing new: Yet elder far that world we have not seen; G.o.d's Presence antedates what else hath been: Many the foolish seem, the wise seem few.

Oh foolishest fond folly of a heart Divided, neither here nor there at rest!

That hankers after Heaven, but clings to earth; That neither here nor there knows thorough mirth, Half-choosing, wholly missing, the good part:-- Oh fool among the foolish, in thy quest.

25.

When we consider what this life we lead Is not, and is; how full of toil and pain, How blank of rest and of substantial gain, Beset by hunger earth can never feed, And propping half our hearts upon a reed; We cease to mourn lost treasures mourned in vain, Lost treasures we are fain and yet not fain To fetch back for a solace of our need.

For who that feel this burden and this strain, This wide vacuity of hope and heart, Would bring their cherished well-beloved again: To bleed with them and wince beneath the smart, To have with stinted bliss such lavish bane, To hold in lieu of all so poor a part?

26.

This Life is full of numbness and of balk, Of haltingness and baffled short-coming, Of promise unfulfilled, of everything That is puffed vanity and empty talk: Its very bud hangs cankered on the stalk, Its very song-bird trails a broken wing, Its very Spring is not indeed like Spring, But sighs like Autumn round an aimless walk.

This Life we live is dead for all its breath; Death's self it is, set off on pilgrimage, Travelling with tottering steps the first short stage: The second stage is one mere desert dust Where Death sits veiled amid creation's rust:-- Unveil thy face, O Death who art not Death.

27.

I have dreamed of Death:--what will it be to die Not in a dream, but in the literal truth With all Death's adjuncts ghastly and uncouth, The pang that is the last and the last sigh?

Too dulled, it may be, for a last good-bye, Too comfortless for any one to soothe, A helpless charmless spectacle of ruth Through long last hours, so long while yet they fly.

So long to those who hopeless in their fear Watch the slow breath and look for what they dread: While I supine, with ears that cease to hear, With eyes that glaze, with heart-pulse running down, (Alas! no saint rejoicing on her bed), May miss the goal at last, may miss a crown.

28.

In life our absent friend is far away: But death may bring our friend exceeding near, Show him familiar faces long so dear And lead him back in reach of words we say.

He only cannot utter yea or nay In any voice accustomed to our ear; He only cannot make his face appear And turn the sun back on our shadowed day.

The dead may be around us, dear and dead; The unforgotten dearest dead may be Watching us, with unslumbering eyes and heart, Brimful of words which cannot yet be said, Brimful of knowledge they may not impart, Brimful of love for you and love for me.

"FOR THINE OWN SAKE, O MY G.o.d."

Wearied of sinning, wearied of repentance, Wearied of self, I turn, my G.o.d, to Thee; To Thee, my Judge, on Whose all-righteous sentence Hangs mine eternity: I turn to Thee, I plead Thyself with Thee,-- Be pitiful to me.

Wearied I loathe myself, I loathe my sinning, My stains, my festering sores, my misery: Thou the Beginning, Thou ere my beginning Didst see and didst foresee Me miserable, me sinful, ruined me,-- I plead Thyself with Thee.

I plead Thyself with Thee Who art my Maker, Regard Thy handiwork that cries to Thee; I plead Thyself with Thee Who wast partaker Of mine infirmity, Love made Thee what Thou art, the love of me,-- I plead Thyself with Thee.

UNTIL THE DAY BREAK.

When will the day bring its pleasure?

When will the night bring its rest?

Reaper and gleaner and thresher Peer toward the east and the west:-- The Sower He knoweth, and He knoweth best.

Meteors flash forth and expire, Northern lights kindle and pale; These are the days of desire, Of eyes looking upward that fail; Vanis.h.i.+ng days as a finis.h.i.+ng tale.

Bows down the crop in its glory Tenfold, fifty-fold, hundred-fold; The millet is ripened and h.o.a.ry, The wheat ears are ripened to gold:-- Why keep us waiting in dimness and cold?

The Lord of the harvest, He knoweth Who knoweth the first and the last: The Sower Who patiently soweth, He scanneth the present and past: He saith, "What thou hast, what remaineth, hold fast."

Yet, Lord, o'er Thy toil-wearied weepers The storm-clouds hang muttering and frown: On threshers and gleaners and reapers, O Lord of the harvest, look down; Oh for the harvest, the shout, and the crown!

"Not so," saith the Lord of the reapers, The Lord of the first and the last: "O My toilers, My weary, My weepers, What ye have, what remaineth, hold fast.

Hide in My heart till the vengeance be past."

"OF HIM THAT WAS READY TO PERISH."

Lord, I am waiting, weeping, watching for Thee: My youth and hope lie by me buried and dead, My wandering love hath not where to lay its head Except Thou say "Come to Me."

My noon is ended, abolished from life and light, My noon is ended, ended and done away, My sun went down in the hours that still were day, And my lingering day is night.

How long, O Lord, how long in my desperate pain Shall I weep and watch, shall I weep and long for Thee?

Is Thy grace ended, Thy love cut off from me?

How long shall I long in vain?

O G.o.d Who before the beginning hast seen the end, Who hast made me flesh and blood, not frost and not fire, Who hast filled me full of needs and love and desire And a heart that craves a friend,

Who hast said "Come to Me and I will give thee rest,"

Who hast said "Take on thee My yoke and learn of Me,"

Who calledst a little child to come to Thee And pillowedst John on Thy breast;

Who spak'st to women that followed Thee sorrowing, Bidding them weep for themselves and weep for their own; Who didst welcome the outlaw adoring Thee all alone, And plight Thy word as a King,--

By Thy love of these and of all that ever shall be, By Thy love of these and of all the born and unborn, Turn Thy gracious eyes on me and think no scorn Of me, not even of me.

Beside Thy Cross I hang on my cross in shame, My wounds, weakness, extremity cry to Thee: Bid me also to Paradise, also me For the glory of Thy Name.

"BEHOLD THE MAN!"

Shall Christ hang on the Cross, and we not look?

Heaven, earth, and h.e.l.l stood gazing at the first, While Christ for long-cursed man was counted cursed; Christ, G.o.d and Man, Whom G.o.d the Father strook And shamed and sifted and one while forsook:-- Cry shame upon our bodies we have nursed In sweets, our souls in pride, our spirits immersed In wilfulness, our steps run all acrook.

Cry shame upon us! for He bore our shame In agony, and we look on at ease With neither hearts on flame nor cheeks on flame: What hast thou, what have I, to do with peace?