The Complete Poems of Christina Rossetti :: :: University of Virginia Library

It's not for earthly bread, Annie,
And it's not for earthly wine,
And it's not for all thou art, Annie,
Nor for any gift of thine:
It's for other food and other love
And other gifts I pine.

I long all night and day, Annie,
In this glorious month of June,
Tho' the roses all are blossoming
And the birds are all in tune:

218

I dream and long all night, Annie,
Beneath the tender moon.

There is a dearer home than this
In a land that's far away,
And a better crown than cankered gold,
Or withering leaves of bay:
There's a richer love than thine, Annie,
Must fill an endless day.

I long to be alone indeed,
I long to sleep at last;
To know the lifelong fever
And sick weariness are past;
To feel the night is come indeed,
And the gate secure and fast.

Oh gate of death, of the blessed night,
That shall open not again
On this world of shame and sorrow,
Where slow ages wax and wane,
Where are signs and seasons, days and nights,
And mighty winds and rain.

I long to dwell in silence,
In twilight cool and dim:
It may be sometimes seeing
Soft gleams of Seraphim;
It may be sometimes catching
Faint echoes of their hymn.

I am tired of all the shows
And of all the songs of earth;
I am sick of the cold sky overhead,
And the cold land of my birth;
I am sick for the home-land of delight
And love and endless worth.

Is the day wearing toward the west?—
Far off cool shadows pass,
A visible refreshment
Across the sultry grass;

219

Far off low mists are mustering,
A broken shifting mass.

I know there comes a struggle
Before the utter calm,
And a searching pain like fire
Before the healing balm;—
But the pain shall cease, and the struggle cease,
And we shall take no harm.

Doubtless the Angels wonder
That we can live at ease
While all around is full of change,
Yea, full of vanities:
They wonder we can think to fill
Our hearts with such as these.

Still in the deepest knowledge
Some depth is left unknown;
Still in the merriest music lurks
A plaintive undertone;
Still with the closest friend some throb
Of life is felt alone.

But vain it were to linger
On the race we have to run,
For that which was must be again
Till time itself is done;
Yea, there is nothing new we know
At all beneath the sun.

I am sick for love, and moan
Like a solitary dove:
Love is as deep as hell, Annie,
And as high as heaven above;
There's nothing in all the world, Annie,
That can compete with love.

Time's summer breath is sweet, his sands
Ebb sparkling as they flow,
Yet some are sick that this should end
Which is from long ago:—

220

Are not the fields already white
To harvest in the glow?—

God puts the sickle to the corn
And reaps it when He will
From every watered valley
And from every fruitful hill:
He holdeth time in His Right Hand,
To check or to fulfil.

There shall come another harvest
Than was in days of yore:
The reapers shall be Angels,
Our God shall purge the floor:—
No more seed-time, no more harvest,
Then for evermore.

Come, let us kneel together
Once again love, I and thou;
We have prayed apart and wept apart,
But may weep together now:
Once we looked back together
With our hands upon the plough.

A little while, and we must part
Again, as on that day:
My spirit shall go forth alone
To tread the untried way;
Then thou shalt watch alone once more,
And kneel alone to pray.

When the shadows thicken round me
And the silence grows apace,
And I cannot hear thy voice, Annie,
Nor look upon thy face,
Wilt thou kneel for me and plead for me
Before the Throne of Grace?—

So surely if my spirit
Hath knowledge while it lies
In the outer courts of Heaven,
It shall watch with longing eyes

221

And pray that thou mayest also come
To dwell in Paradise.