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At Issue

THAT voice I hear,—how heard I cannot tell,—

Although my home is this, seems from my home:

There… still it trails along and murmurs “Come”;

Like the slow death of sound within a bell,

Or like the humming whine in some pink shell

Wet with the brittle beadage of the foam

Which bird—eyed damsels stoop for when they roam

By the old sea. Were't not exceeding well

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

On Burns

In whomsoe'er, since Poesy began,

A Poet most of all men we may scan,

Burns of all poets is the most a Man.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

My Sister’s Sleep

She fell asleep on Christmas Eve:

At length the long-ungranted shade

Of weary eyelids overweigh'd

The pain nought else might yet relieve.

Our mother, who had leaned all day

Over the bed from chime to chime,

Then raised herself for the first time,

And as she sat her down, did pray.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Sonnet IV: Lovesight

When do I see thee most, beloved one?

When in the light the spirits of mine eyes

Before thy face, their altar, solemnize

The worship of that Love through thee made known?

Or when in the dusk hours, (we two alone,)

Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies

Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies,

And my soul only sees thy soul its own?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Sonnet XXIV: Pride of Youth

Even as a child, of sorrow that we give

The dead, but little in his heart can find,

Since without need of thought to his clear mind

Their turn it is to die and his to live:—

Even so the winged New Love smiles to receive

Along his eddying plumes the auroral wind,

Nor, forward glorying, casts one look behind

Where night-rack shrouds the Old Love fugitive.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Sonnet VII: Supreme Surrender

To all the spirits of Love that wander by

Along his love-sown harvest-field of sleep

My lady lies apparent; and the deep

Calls to the deep; and no man sees but I.

The bliss so long afar, at length so nigh,

Rests there attained. Methinks proud Love must weep

When Fate's control doth from his harvest reap

The sacred hour for which the years did sigh.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Percy Bysshe Shelley

'Twixt those twin worlds,—the world of Sleep, which gave

No dream to warn,—the tidal world of Death,

Which the earth's sea, as the earth, replenisheth,—

Shelley, Song's orient sun, to breast the wave,

Rose from this couch that morn. Ah! did he brave

Only the sea?—or did man's deed of hell

Engulph his bark 'mid mists impenetrable? . . .

No eye discerned, nor any power might save.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Sonnet V: Heart's Hope

By what word's power, the key of paths untrod,

Shall I the difficult deeps of Love explore,

Till parted waves of Song yield up the shore

Even as that sea which Israel crossed dryshod?

For lo! in some poor rhythmic period,

Lady, I fain would tell how evermore

Thy soul I know not from thy body, nor

Thee from myself, neither our love from God.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

After The French Liberation Of Italy

AS when the last of the paid joys of love

Has come and gone; and with a single kiss

At length, and with one laugh of satiate bliss,

The wearied man a minute rests above

The wearied woman, no more urged to move

In those long throes of longing, till they glide,

Now lightlier clasped, each to the other's side,

In joys past acting, not past dreaming of:—

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

At The Sun-Rise In 1848

God said, Let there be light; and there was light.

Then heard we sounds as though the Earth did sing

And the Earth's angel cried upon the wing:

We saw priests fall together and turn white:

And covered in the dust from the sun's sight,

A king was spied, and yet another king.

We said: “The round world keeps its balancing;

On this globe, they and we are opposite,—

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

The Blessed Damozel

The blessed damozel leaned out

From the gold bar of Heaven;

Her eyes were deeper than the depth

Of waters stilled at even;

She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,

No wrought flowers did adorn,

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

A New-Year’s Burden

ALONG the grass sweet airs are blown

Our way this day in Spring.

Of all the songs that we have known

Now which one shall we sing?

Not that, my love, ah no!—

Not this, my love? why, so!—

Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go.

The grove is all a pale frail mist,

Dante Gabriel Rossetti