The Complete Poems of Christina Rossetti A variorum edition: Edited, with textual notes and introductions, by R. W. Crump |
 | I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| II. |
| I. |
|
| II. |
| III. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| IV. |
| V. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
|
| III. |
| I. |
MICHAEL F. M. ROSSETTI.
|
| II. |
| III. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
 | The Complete Poems of Christina Rossetti |  |
MICHAEL F. M. ROSSETTI.
Born April 22nd, 1881; Died January 24th, 1883.
A holy Innocent gone home
Without so much as one sharp wounding word:
A blessed Michael in heaven's lofty dome
Without a sword.
Without so much as one sharp wounding word:
A blessed Michael in heaven's lofty dome
Without a sword.
Brief dawn and noon and setting time!
Our rapid-rounding moon has fled:
A black eclipse before the prime
Has swallowed up that shining head.
Eternity holds up her lookingglass:—
The eclipse of Time will pass,
And all that lovely light return to sight.
Our rapid-rounding moon has fled:
A black eclipse before the prime
Has swallowed up that shining head.
Eternity holds up her lookingglass:—
The eclipse of Time will pass,
And all that lovely light return to sight.
49
I watch the showers and think of flowers:
Alas, my flower that shows no fruit!
My snowdrop plucked, my daisy shoot
Plucked from the root.
Alas, my flower that shows no fruit!
My snowdrop plucked, my daisy shoot
Plucked from the root.
Soon Spring will shower, the world will flower,
A world of buds will promise fruit,
Pear trees will shoot and apples shoot
Sound at the root.
A world of buds will promise fruit,
Pear trees will shoot and apples shoot
Sound at the root.
Bud of an hour, far off you flower;
My bud, far off you ripen fruit;
My prettiest bud, my straightest shoot
Sweet at the root.
My bud, far off you ripen fruit;
My prettiest bud, my straightest shoot
Sweet at the root.
The youngest bud of five,
The least lamb of the fold,—
Bud not to blossom, yet to thrive
Away from cold.
The least lamb of the fold,—
Bud not to blossom, yet to thrive
Away from cold.
Lamb which we shall not see
Leap at its pretty pranks,
Our lamb at rest and full of glee
On heavenly banks.
Leap at its pretty pranks,
Our lamb at rest and full of glee
On heavenly banks.
| The Complete Poems of Christina Rossetti | |