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. |
| II. |
| III. |
The Novice. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
 | The Complete Poems of Christina Rossetti |  |
The Novice.
I love one, and he loveth me:
Who sayeth this? who deemeth this?
And is this thought a cause of bliss,
Or source of misery?
Who sayeth this? who deemeth this?
And is this thought a cause of bliss,
Or source of misery?
The loved may die, or he may change:
And if he die thou art bereft;
Or if he alter, nought is left
Save life that seemeth strange.
And if he die thou art bereft;
Or if he alter, nought is left
Save life that seemeth strange.
A weary life, a hopeless life,
Full of all ill and fear-oppressed;
A weary life that looks for rest
Alone after death's strife.
Full of all ill and fear-oppressed;
A weary life that looks for rest
Alone after death's strife.
And love's joy hath no quiet even;
It evermore is variable.
Its gladness is like war in Hell,
More than repose in Heaven.
It evermore is variable.
Its gladness is like war in Hell,
More than repose in Heaven.
Yea, it is as a poison cup
That holds one quick fire-draught within;
For when the life seems to begin
The slow death looketh up.
That holds one quick fire-draught within;
For when the life seems to begin
The slow death looketh up.
140
Then bring me to a solitude
Where love may neither come nor go;
Where very peaceful waters flow,
And roots are found for food;
Where love may neither come nor go;
Where very peaceful waters flow,
And roots are found for food;
Where the wild honey-bee booms by;
And trees and bushes freely give
Ripe fruit and nuts; there I would live,
And there I fain would die.
And trees and bushes freely give
Ripe fruit and nuts; there I would live,
And there I fain would die.
There Autumn leaves may make my grave,
And little birds sing over it;
And there cool twilight winds may flit
And shadowy branches wave.
And little birds sing over it;
And there cool twilight winds may flit
And shadowy branches wave.
| The Complete Poems of Christina Rossetti | |