Does the road wind uphill all the way?
 

            Christina Rossetti (1830-1894): The youngest child, Christina was born in London on December 9, 1830, into a family filled with artists, poets, and critics. Her father was Gabriele Rossetti, a poet. Her first poems were written in 1842, and printed on her grandfather's printing press. She was devoutly religious, and later in her life she spent much time at home. She continued to write in the 1870s, and her life was a quiet one after her brother Dante's death in 1882. She died of cancer on December 29, 1894.

Even if I'm not fond of some of her more religious poems, Christina Rossetti's always going to be one of my favorite poets. Here's some of my favorite works by her.

"Echo"

Come to me in the silence of the night;
    Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
    As sunlight on a stream;
        Come back in tears,
    O memory of hope, love of finished years.

Oh dream how sweet, to sweet, too bitter sweet,
    Whose waking should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;
    Where thirsting longing eyes
        Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
    My life again tho' cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
    Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
        Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago.
 
 

"In An Artist's Studio"

One face looks out from all his canvasses,
    One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans;
    We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
    A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,
    A saint, an angel;--every canvass means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
    And she with true kind eyes looks back on him
Fair as the moon and joyfull as the light;
    Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.
 

"A Summer Wish"

Live all thy sweet life through,
      Sweet Rose, dew-sprent,
Drop down thine evening dew
To gather it anew
When day is bright:
      I fancy thou wast meant
Chiefly to give delight.

Sing in the silent sky,
      Glad soaring bird;
Sing out thy notes on high
To sunbeam straying by
Or passing cloud;
      Heedless if thou art heard
Sing thy full song aloud.

Oh that it were with me
      As with the flower;
Blooming on its own tree
For butterfly and bee
Its summer morns:
      That I might bloom mine hour
A rose in spite of thorns.

Oh that my work were done
      As birds' that soar
Rejoicing in the sun:
That when my time is run
And daylight too,
      I so might rest once more
Cool with refreshing dew.
 
 

"Bird Raptures"

The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
      The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come darkness, moonrise, everything
      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.
 

"Song"

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.
 

"Mirage"

The hope I dreamed of was a dream,
Was but a dream; and now I wake,
Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
For a dream's sake.

I hang my harp upon a tree,
A weeping willow in a lake;
I hang my silent harp there, wrung and snapped
For a dream's sake.

Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart;
My silent heart, lie still and break:
Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed
For a dream's sake.
 

"After Death"

The curtains werehalf drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where thro` the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him say:
"Poor child, poor child": and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm tho` I am cold.
 

"Have You Forgotten?"

Have you forgotten how one Summer night
We wandered forth together with the moon,
While warm winds hummed to us a sleepy tune?
Have you forgotten how you praised both light
And darkness; not embarassed yet not quite
At ease? and how you said the glare of noon
Less pleased you than the stars? but very soon
You blushed, and seemed to doubt if you were right.
We wandered far and took no note of time;
Till on the air there came the distant call
Of church bells; we turned hastily, and yet
Ere we reached home sounded a second chime.
But what; have you indeed forgotten all?
Ah how then is it I cannot forget?
 
 
 

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Q