The Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti :: :: University of Virginia Library

Yes, it is Love bears up
My soul on his spread wings,
Which the days would else chafe out
With their infinite harassings.
To quicken it, he brings
The inward look and mild
That thy face wears, my child.

As in a gilded room
Shines 'mid the braveries
Some wild-flower, by the bloom
Of its delicate quietness
Recalling the forest-trees
In whose shadow it was,
And the water and the green grass:—

Even so, 'mid the stale loves
The city prisoneth,
Thou touchest me gratefully,
Like Nature's wholesome breath:
Thy heart nor hardeneth
In pride, nor putteth on
Obeisance not its own.

Not thine the skill to shut
The love up in thine heart,
Neither to seem more tender,
Less tender than thou art.
Thou dost not hold apart
In silence when thy joys
Most long to find a voice.

Let the proud river-course,
That shakes its mane and champs,
Run between marble shores
By the light of many lamps,
While all the ooze and the damps
Of the city's choked-up ways
Make it their draining-place.

Rather the little stream
For me; which, hardly heard,
Unto the flower, its friend,
Whispers as with a word.
The timid journeying bird
Of the pure drink that flows
Takes but one drop, and goes.

536

II.—A FAREWELL

I soothed and pitied thee: and for thy lips,—
A smile, a word (sure guide
To love that's ill to hide!)
Was all I had thereof.

Even as an orphan boy, whom, sore distress'd,
A gentle woman meets beside the road
And takes him home with her,—so to thy breast
Thou didst take home my image: pure abode!
'Twas but a virgin's dream. This heart bestow'd
Respect and piety
And friendliness on thee:
But it is poor in love.

No, I am not for thee. Thou art too new,
I am too old, to the old beaten way.
The griefs are not the same which grieve us two:
Thy thought and mine lie far apart to-day.
Less than I wish, more than I hope, alway
Are heart and soul in thee.
Thou art too much for me,
Sister, and not enough.

A better and a fresher heart than mine
Perchance may meet thee ere thy youth be told;
Or, cheated by the longing that is thine,
Waiting for life perchance thou shalt wax old.
Perchance the time may come when I may hold
It had been best for me
To have had thy ministry
On the steep path and rough.

SONNET

OM CECCO ANGIOLIERI

In absence from Becchina

I'm better skill'd to frolic on a bed
Than any man that goes upon two feet;
And so, when I and certain moneys meet,
You'll fancy with what joys I shall be fed.
Meanwhile (alas!) I can but long instead
To be within her arms held close and sweet
To whom without reserve and past retreat
My soul and body and heart are subjected.
For often, when my mind is all distraught
With this whereof I make my boast, I pass
The day in deaths which never seem enough;
And all my blood within is boiling hot,
Yet I've less strength than running water has;
And this shall last as long as I'm in love.

537

FROM THE ROMAN DE LA ROSE

Tender as dew her cheeks' warm life;
She was as simple as a wife,
She was as white as lilies are.
Her face was sweet and smooth and fair:
Slender and very straight she was,
And on her cheeks no paint might pass. [OMITTED]
Her fair hair was so long that it
Shook, when she walked, about her feet:
Eyes, nose, and mouth, were perfect art,
Exceeding pain is at my heart
When I remember me of her.