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Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,

Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.

Mark me how still I am! But should there dart

One moment through thy soul the soft surprise

Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,

Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

Christina Georgina Rossetti

1830-1894

UP-HILL

(From Goblin Market, etc., 1862)

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.

SYMBOLS

(From Devotional Pieces)

I watched a rosebud very long

Brought on by dew and sun and shower,
Waiting to see the perfect flower;
Then, when I thought it should be strong,
It opened at the matin hour

And fell at even-song.

I watched a nest from day to day,
A green nest full of pleasant shade,
Wherein three speckled eggs were laid:
But when they should have hatched in May,
The two old birds had grown afraid

Or tired, and flew away.

Then in my wrath I broke the bough
That I had tended so with care,
Hoping its scent should fill the air;
I crushed the eggs, not heeding how
Their ancient promise had been fair:
I would have vengeance now.

But the dead branch spoke from the sod,
And the eggs answered me again:
Because we failed dost thou complain?
Is thy wrath just? And what if God,
Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain,
Should also take the rod?

(From Monna Innominata, in A Pageant and Other Poems, 1881)

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'Amor che a nulla amato amar perdona.”—Dante. "Amor m'addusse in sì gioiosa spene."-PETRARCA. O my heart's heart, and you who are to me More than myself myself, God be with you, Keep you in strong obedience leal and true To Him whose noble service setteth free, Give you all good we see or can foresee,

Make your joys many and your sorrows few, Bless you in what you bear and what you do, Yea, perfect you as He would have you be. So much for you; but what for me, dear friend? To love you without stint and all I can To-day, to-morrow, world without an end;

To love you much and yet to love you more, As Jordan at his flood sweeps either shore; Since woman is the helpmeet made for man.

(From the same)

"Ela Sua Volontade è nostra pace.”—DANTE. 'Sol con questi pensier, con altre chìome."-PETRARCA. Youth gone, and beauty gone if ever there Dwelt beauty in so poor a face as this; Youth gone and beauty, what remains of bliss? I will not bind fresh roses in my hair, To shame a cheek at best but little fair,

Leave youth his roses, who can bear a thorn,— I will not seek for blossoms anywhere,

Except such common flowers as blow with corn. Youth gone and beauty gone, what doth remain? The longing of a heart pent up forlorn,

A silent heart whose silence loves and longs; The silence of a heart which sang its songs While youth and beauty made a summer morn, Silence of love that cannot sing again.

(From Later Life, in the same)

Thou Who didst make and knowest whereof we are

made,

Oh bear in mind our dust and nothingness, Our wordless tearless dumbness of distress: Bear Thou in mind the burden Thou hast laid Upon us, and our feebleness unstayed

Except Thou stay us: for the long long race Which stretches far and far before our face Thou knowest,-remember Thou whereof we are made. If making makes us Thine, then Thine we are; And if redemption, we are twice Thine own: If once Thou didst come down from heaven afar To seek us and to find us, how not save? Comfort us, save us, leave us not alone,

Thou Who didst die our death and fill our grave.

William Morris

1834-1896

AN APOLOGY

(From The Earthly Paradise, 1868–70)

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,
I cannot ease the burden of your fears,
Or make quick-coming death a little thing,
Or bring again the pleasure of past years,
Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,
Or hope again for aught that I can say,
The idle singer of an empty day.

But rather, when aweary of your mirth, From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, Grudge every minute as it passes by,

Made the more mindful that the sweet days dieRemember me a little then I pray,

The idle singer of an empty day.

The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our bread, These idle verses have no power to bear; So let me sing of names remembered, Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead, Or long time take their memory quite away From us poor singers of an empty day.

Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme Beats with light wing against the ivory gate, Telling a tale not too importunate

To those who in the sleepy region stay,
Lulled by the singer of an empty day.

Folk say, a wizard to a northern king

At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show,
That through one window men beheld the spring,
And through another saw the summer glow,
And through a third the fruited vines a-row,
While still, unheard, but in its wonted way,
Piped the drear wind of that December day.

So with this Earthly Paradise it is,
If ye will read aright, and pardon me,
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss

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